


A Royal Affair

by ConfusedButTrying



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Cuddling, Fantasy, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, George is not, Humor, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Magic, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Paul is a prince, Period Typical Attitudes, Platonic Cuddling, Rating May Change, References to Depression, References to Illness, References to Shakespeare, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Slut Shaming, So is John, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Suggestive Themes, Tags May Change, There's more of a choice, Trust me theyre dumb, Witchcraft, bc ima be real with y'all, changed the rating just in case, i have no clue what the hell im gonna do next, oblivious idiots in love, on multiple occasions, period typical anti-semitism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2020-07-08 06:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19865101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConfusedButTrying/pseuds/ConfusedButTrying
Summary: George Harrison and John Lennon have been mates for years, even despite the fact that they are of vastly different social statuses, John being a royal and George being of no noble blood whatsoever. So when John proposes he come with him to try his hand at marrying Paul McCartney, the prince of a neighboring kingdom, George decides to accept. As they both hear more about Paul, they begin to expect the flirty remarks and actions, as well as the way almost everyone seems to talk about him like he's a spot of shame on an otherwise prideful family. What George doesn't expect is the increasingly concerning way John himself begins to talk about his new to-be, and he most certainly doesn't expect his own growing fondness of the same prince John is set on marrying, either.!!Important!!! Captain_Nerdsalot came up with the title, not me. I was having trouble coming up with one and she, being the wonderful person that she is, graciously pitched in. Please do not miscredit the title as my original idea and instead give the credit to her. Thank you!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Captain_Nerdsalot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Nerdsalot/gifts).



> Slight disclaimer: This work uses some language and ideas that are no longer considered okay. The things some of these characters say and the way they behave or think about things is just a reflection of the times and settings, and while it is something that they might believe in, that does not mean it reflects my personal beliefs.

The carriage rumbled along the dirt-paved roads of the country, shaking with the uneven ground. It was high-class and made to be comfortable, housing an important passenger, but despite the plush seating, George was far from relaxed. The occasional pitch of the compartment aggravated the nervous pit in his stomach to the point of dizziness, and it was also a fact that after eight damn hours any seat on such a road would eventually become, quite literally, a pain in the arse. The carriage hit another bump in the road, sending George forward with it, forcing him to readjust his position once more with a groan as he tried to ignore the looming premonition in his gut. In front of him, his best mate John laughed. John was not like George. He was royal, a nobleman, Hell, he was the prince of a kingdom, but George was just George. A nobody, who lived in a regular house in town, wore simple clothes, and ate bread and cheese for breakfast, whereas John was very much someone, living in the palace and dressing himself (astonishing that someone as far up the rankings  _ could  _ dress himself, really) in finery of all kinds. On this particular occasion, George was dressed in clothes similar to John’s. They were lavish, with gold accents and large sleeves, the pressed, button-down shirt adorned with an extravagant cravat. It was awkward to wear, but John had insisted on it seeing as George would be staying with him at the castle to help him on his quest to get married. 

The whole marriage thing was what had made George nervous. The prince of this kingdom was not an easy one, or maybe he was and that was the problem, regardless he was unmarried and in his prime, meaning that suitors from all over had tried and failed. Or rather, they’d  _ succeeded _ too early in the game to be considered marriable. Something about the customs- George didn’t know, he wasn’t a nobleman and heard it all from John, who’d simply stressed that it was a challenge because the challenge part was all he cared about. Maybe the odd sense of doom was out of fear that John wasn’t doing this for love, George supposed. 

“This boy,” he said, fiddling with his cravat absentmindedly.  _ Christ, if these things weren’t uncomfortable.  _ “Do you think he’s pretty?”

“I would like to guess yes,” John mused. “I’ve heard good things from the many who’ve been graced by his presence.” George snorted. 

“Many… I wonder what scared them all off?” 

“Maybe he’s frightful.” John let out a soft chuckle, running his hand through his auburn curls. “No, I don’t think so. I think it was something ‘bout the customs.”

“Thas’ what you always say!”

“Well,  _ King James  _ certainly doesn’t want to tell me the answer until he knows I probably couldn’t be arsed to turn my carriage around.”

“I thought you said something about them sabotaging themselves?”

“Exactly. The customs, you see.”

George scoffed. “Aye, you never make a lick of sense.” They rode in comfortable silence for a while, opening the curtain and watching the pretty scenery go by. This kingdom they were approaching surely had its woods. It was incredibly beautiful, with tall trees and fields of flowers. Even the city itself, sketched faintly into the horizon, seemed something out of one of the storybooks hidden under George’s mattress back home. He adjusted his cravat again. How he wished he could be home in bed instead of in a rumbling carriage with a sore arse, nervous and out of place in this oddly fancy costume John called “clothes.” 

As the sun had just begun to set and the world sat on the cusp of dusk, the two men and their carriage arrived at the castle. They slowly stepped out of the open door and took a quick moment's peace to stretch their aching legs. The air was slightly cold, just enough to bite through their clothes and make them shiver, and George found himself rubbing his arms to ward it off, although it didn’t work well with his billowing sleeves. John stood with his hands on his hips, too proud to act like he wasn’t also shivering underneath his unbothered demeanor. Soon their luggage was unloaded from the top of their carriage into the hands of unnamed servants, taken into the castle and presumably to their rooms, although before George could ask about it a young man with large sleeves not unlike George’s own and a feather in his hat had walked up to them and extended his paw. 

“Brian Epstein,” the man said, shaking both George and John's hands with a firm grasp. “Advisor to the king. Come along, follow me, King James has been expecting you.” He turned to John and added pointedly, with a slight sigh, “And his Highness Prince Paul has been expecting you too, I suppose.” Once Brian had turned on his heel and began walking towards their destination, John gave a brief, devilish grin to George before following. George hesitated before continuing, wondering why this “Brian Epstein” had been so disappointed by Paul’s excitement when marriage meant more power, and it wasn’t every day you found a prince or princess keen on finding a suitor. 

“Now,” Brian said when they caught up to him (the man could certainly walk fast). “I have been instructed by His Majesty to lay a few ground rules. Firstly, for the first day you will not be permitted to see the Prince at all, and before you allow this to ruffle your feathers bear in mind you-“ he made sure to point at John, firmly leaving George out of the discussion. “Will be touring the grounds with the King himself. Your  _ friend _ can ask the servants to show him where he’s allowed to go. Secondly, when you  _ are  _ permitted to see him, which you will be so you can get to know each other and see if there’s a match, either myself or His Majesty will supervise. That means absolutely no going back to his chambers.” John sighed exaggeratedly. 

“But Sir, Mister Epstein, if I may,” he said, subtly elbowing George in the ribs and giving him a sly wink. “Aren’t his chambers what we’re all here for?” Brian Epstein looked horrified. 

“Goodness! No!” he said, shaking his head disapprovingly. Then he muttered, just loud enough for George to hear: “We’ve really had enough of that.” They walked down the halls in silence, save for Brian clearing his throat a few times, until they passed a hallway filled with ornate paintings. John stopped at the second to last one, caught staring straight at the subject’s face. George looked and found it was of a beautiful young man, likely around their age, who peered at them with a teasing, almost flirtatious, half-lidded gaze, hands resting comfortably on his lap. George could see why John was so captured. 

“Beautiful aren’t they?” Brian said, noticing their infatuation. “Painted by Stuart Sutcliffe, he’s a member of the court, but I’d say- privately, that is- this is his  _ real  _ talent. Although I always thought- again,  _ privately-  _ he made Paul a bit too... how should I put it? Provocative.”

“So this is Paul,” John murmured. His expression slowly turned into a smirk. “I think I rather like him. The provocative stance adds to his character, I’d like to think.”

“Well if you like that,” Brian huffed, shaking his head. “Then you’d want to see the original. And you will never get to see the original.” John’s interest was immediately piqued. 

“Original?” 

“Yes, there was another. He painted one of Paul in a more unbecoming pose. Shirt unbuttoned almost all the way, coat around his shoulders, the works. The way he captured it, it caused quite a stir. His Majesty was furious, probably going to throw Stuart in jail until Paul revealed he’d, well, ‘propositioned’ him to do it, as we staff like to put it.” George furrowed his brow. 

“Don’t you mean commissioned?” he asked, perplexed. He was sure that was the word used to talk about paying a painter to paint you, but Brian merely sighed, clearly dismayed by the question. 

“No deary, I do not.” George’s mouth formed a silent  _ “oh”  _ in realization, staring back up at the portrait and trying to rid himself of the mental image in his mind. Beside them John chuckled, unsympathetic. 

“Well, the man sounds like a right good time to me,” he barked. “Can’t wait to meet him!” Brian just shook his head again, shooting George a look that he returned with all the sympathy John had apparently withheld. They continued along their way through the winding halls, finally stopping at an ornately carved door. Brian pushed it open, revealing a beautiful room with a king-sized bed adorned with silk sheets and embroidered pillows, a mahogany desk, and a large window that during daylight hours would stream sunlight, a little nook laden with pillows and a blanket nicely settled underneath it. 

“This is your room, Prince John,” Brian said. “Make yourself at home. Your luggage is already inside. 

“I sure feel like a prince,” John grinned, giving George a wink. Then, he closed the door and it was only George and Brian. The first thing the man in front of him did was let out a long sigh. 

“Royals, they’re so exhausting,” he said. “I had to sugar coat all that jazz about Paul and Stu-  _ whew! _ what a conversation.” They walked down the halls, descending some stairs. 

“About Prince Paul and Lord Sutcliffe,” George asked, slightly embarrassed. “By propositioned you couldn’t  _ possibly  _ mean-“

“Oh, they shared a bed alright,” Brian said. “Sneaky little boy, that Paul. I’ve known him for years, and he’s always been a bit of a handful, but come of age and you’ve got all sorts of new problems. Thankfully, Stuart was no suitor, so there was nothing really ruined, aside from an in-court scandal that stayed within the castle. For the most part. But King James, bless him for trying, lectured Paul about how he’d have to abandon his old… habits, let’s call them, if he ever wanted to settle down. Which he doesn’t. Oy, what drama!” 

“I’ll say,” George replied, raising his eyebrows. “I thought John’s family was dramatic.”

“Oh, every royal family’s dramatic in their own way deary,” Brian said. “Each has their area, their topic, their scandal. Ours most unfortunately happens to be sex, and with so many suitors trying their luck, it tends gets out. Paul’s not too ashamed, angers everybody.” They had come to a halt in front of a door that was noticeably simpler than John’s, situated just beside the courtyard, which was, like the woods surrounding the place, remarkably pretty. George turned his attention back to the door just as Brian caught him doing so. 

“Oh, trust me, this one’s a better arrangement,” he assured him. “The high-life is nice, but  _ these  _ are just so cozy. They’ll remind you of home no matter where you’re from, and  _ ooh!  _ You can open the curtains to the large French doors on the other wall and see the wonderfully scenic view of the pond. There are  _ so  _ many trees in bloom right now. Oh, I know you’ll love it!” George couldn’t help but smile. The perks of not being a nobleman made themselves clear in the way staff would speak to him: unafraid and casual, more like themselves. It was a nice, liberating feeling that served as a good reminder to him that nobles weren’t really all that stiff when he felt like overthrowing the monarchy over some badly-priced fruit. Brian opened the door for him, and sure enough, George’s things were in there, a few suitcases provided by John to get him through his stay, plus one very small one George had brought himself with some  _ real  _ clothes in it (thank god). 

“If you need anything, ask one of the servants!” Brian grinned, giving him a small wave before shutting the door and leaving George alone with his thoughts. 

His first thought was that Brian was right. It was very cozy. There was a nice, smaller bed in one corner covered in a thick comforter and three pillows over soft sheets, a plush rug coating the floor, and a small bookshelf next to a large wardrobe. As an extra bonus, someone had clearly used cinnamon something, because his sheets smelled of it and there was nothing he enjoyed more than that earthy scent. He opened the curtains hiding the windows, observing the moon-washed view of the courtyard. There were a few scattered lanterns illuminating the outside world that allowed George to glimpse the fish swimming in the pond and the colorful blossoms on the trees. He yawned. His second thought was that it was high time he get to bed. 

His third thought, most daunting of all, was whether or not John was really going to marry Paul. He mulled it over as he undressed out of those horrid clothes, and then twice over as he slipped on some comfortable pajamas. John seemed enthusiastic, sure, but he seemed to be in it for the struggle of pinning Paul down, to be the one that finally ties the knot around his finger like a leash. Glory didn’t seem to be a good mindset to have going into marriage. It was like Taming of the Shrew, almost. He didn’t love Paul, at least not yet, he just wanted to tame him, even control him.  _ Well,  _ George thought with a huff.  _ Maybe Paul doesn’t want to be tamed.  _ He quickly pushed the thought aside. He didn’t know Paul, nor did he really know John’s true intentions. Perhaps he shouldn’t comment. George flopped down on the bed and threw the comforter over himself, stunned out of his thoughts by how comfortable the mattress felt. He could practically sink into it, like some kind of bird’s nest. He burrowed under the covers and quickly fell asleep. 

George’s dreamland was eerily cold, a harsh wind blowing in from nowhere. He was on a stone bridge that stood high above oblivion. He shuddered. A fall from so high would end in death no doubt, and he’d never really fancied heights. Fear pooled in his stomach, and he looked around wildly for a way out, his legs shaking beneath him. The wind was growing stronger, threatening to blow him off the bridge entirely, and George had to clamp his mouth shut with his hands just to stifle the blood-curtailing scream rising in his throat. The world around him suddenly became much brighter, splashed in familiar colors, although the world below remained a startling pitch black. He focused on what appeared to be the sky above him, blue and full of clouds that had parted to make way for the sun 

Then, just as George’s nerves were at long last calming, a deer sped across the bridge towards him, bleating in alarm. It was headed straight for him, set to crash, but the bridge was too thin for George to move out of the way. His heart raced as it neared him, the pounding of it almost loud enough to block out the voice he heard speak. 

“Not so fast, tramp!” the voice rasped, angry and coarse. It held a familiar scouse accent, and George could practically see the frustrated grin etched on the man’s face.  _ No, it couldn’t be.  _ “You won’t get away from me this time!” George heard him ready a crossbow, and before he could scream or shout, the deer had been shot dead. He looked up from the sight of the animal’s carcass, horrified, and was stunned by what he saw. He was right- it was John behind the crossbow, teeth showing in a twisted grin, a maniacal glint in the eyes behind his circular frames. George couldn’t do anything but simply stare, to which John just barked his harsh laughter. Only now that laughter was gruesome and cruel, so different from the way he knew it. 

“Gotcha, darling! Hahaha!” George screamed as the bridge crumbled beneath him, sending both himself and the now-dead deer into the endless pit below. 

George awoke with a similar scream, damp with sweat, his heart still beating with panic. He let a long, tired sigh as the realization that it was only a dream slowly set in. There was daylight streaming through his windows, indicating he had long slept in, and with a groan, George willed himself out of bed. Leave it to him to have a stress dream his first night in another kingdom, he thought, ridding himself of his pajamas and reaching for a new set of clothes- some of those fancy ones that John wore that he  _ still  _ despised. Speaking of the man, George was having a difficult time figuring out what that dream meant, stuck on the word “tramp.” It seemed an odd thing to give to a deer. They were only a deer, weren’t they? Unless, somehow, That John hadn’t been speaking to a deer, but rather a person who he, for whatever reason, did not want to get away from him again. Then why the crossbow? It seemed a very violent action to take, and the more George thought about it the more confused he became. The whole thing was violent, the deer running for its life, John’s ruffled and loony appearance, the awful laughter that still filled George’s ears. Christ, what a dream. He needed to go out in the world and distract himself from this debacle until he couldn’t even remember the image John’s grinning face anymore. 

George padded along the hallway, trying to quiet the heels of his boots as much as possible, although after stumbling into the hustle and bustle of a group of servants he quickly realized it was well into the day. He wandered through the crowd of people in growing confusion, unsure of where to go. The faces here were greatly unfamiliar to him. Back at John’s castle, he knew the names and faces of many of the staff, but that was not the case here. All he received for his awkward waves and pleading eyes were looks that were as perplexed by his appearance in these halls as he was. Thankfully, just as George’s headache was reaching a point where he would gladly enjoy the solitary confinement of his room, Brian found him milling about.

“Need someone to trail after like a lost puppy deary?” he asked, giving George a friendly smile. George flushed with embarrassment. 

“Yes, sorry,” he said, managing a weak smile. “John-“

“Oh, he’s with old James right now,” Brian said. “Touring the palace, learning the trivia. Come on, follow me, I’ll give you a tour of my own.” George breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for some guidance. 

“Oh thank god,” he said. “I was honestly lost.” Brian laughed. 

“I could tell. Now let’s be on our merry way, I can give you all the inside details of these halls.” He gave George a joking wink, to which the man chuckled. 

“Ah, gossip. Just the pick-me-up I need.” Brian stared at him with a slightly concerned look on his face. 

“Pick-me-up?”

“Aye, had me a terrible night’s sleep is all. Dreams, you know? Anyroad, there’s no use dawdling. Let us be going, then?”

“Right,” Brian said. “And a little bit of friendly advice: There’s a woman who passes through the castle every once and a while named Yoko Ono, she might have something to help.” George smiled. 

“Thank you.” They walked through seemingly never-ending halls, stopping in vacant rooms that George admired as Brian talked. He told him many things about the history of the castle, funny and odd stories about the residents, although Brian never really touched upon Paul at all, preferring to leave the boy shrouded in mystery. George never inquired about it. He could guess the answer: Prince Paul, whoever he may be, was a sore topic in these walls. They made their way down the same hall of portraits they had walked down yesterday, and George couldn’t help but ask:

“Where  _ is  _ the original, anyway? I’ve no interest in seeing it, but I wonder if it still exists.”

“Oh, it exists alright,” Brian answered, stopping beside him in front of Paul’s looming painting. “Stuart has it, somewhere in his collection. It really was a fine painting- sensual, some might say. Paul thought it turned out beautiful.”

“Lord Sutcliffe does have quite a knack,” George nodded. 

“He does! But His Majesty hated to see his son in such a risqué piece of work. He made Stu tuck it away forever. Yet he still sometimes defies the King's orders and lets staff admire the colors and whatnot.” George stared at the portrait a little while longer, trying to see into Paul’s eyes and even his mind. What could he have felt when his father saw that painting and learned about that private piece of his life? Perhaps a man of such confidence felt no shame at all. It was better to imagine that scenario than the crippling embarrassment that would’ve befallen George in that predicament. 

“Come on then, our tour’s about done,” Brian called from up ahead, pulling George from his thoughts. “Where do you want me to drop you off?”

“Gardens, please,” he replied after a moment’s consideration. Brian smiled. 

“Gardens, then. This way now!” 

The gardens were even more incredible up close. Whoever had designed it certainly had an eye for colors and different flowers, as each bed had its own type of blossoms, and every section its own theme of colors. The display was full of life, many of the flowers large in size with multiple little blossoms on one stalk- one flower bed was almost entirely dahlias, with white, abundant rose bushes to fill the space. There was another section of only blue blossoms, with large oak trees casting the world in dark shade. Lanterns were hung from the branches to give the place magical glow, and as George strolled along the path he felt himself become absolutely immersed in the world around him. Brian had been right about the trees. Not only were they mostly cherry blossoms, but they were currently in full bloom, shedding pink petals that nestled themselves into George’s hair. 

He made his way out of the tunnel of trees and into an open area modeled after Japanese tea gardens yet also blended with typical English gardens, a sizeable pond near the gazebo filled with koi that had an arched bridge across it. There were cherry blossom trees here, too, and also pink carnations in ornate pots. George stood near the pond, taking in the view and letting his mind be at peace. He felt nicely relaxed in the spring breeze, especially considering the stress of the morning. He let out a dreamy sigh, eyes fluttering closed, ears filled with the soft sound of the waterfall that flowed into the pond at just the right speed. The trees rustled in the soft wind, all of his cares and burdens wafting away with it. He wanted to live in this- whatever it was- for the rest of his life. Maybe he would score lucky and be allowed to stay at the palace after John managed to marry that prince. 

The sound of barking startled him from his thoughts, and George turned just in time to see a giant sheepdog bounding towards him with no intention of stopping. He was only able to so much as raise his eyebrows in surprise before the thing toppled him over and he landed face up onto the soft grass. He gave a slight chuckle as the dog licked his face with wild abandon, clearly pleased to have made a friend. From somewhere ahead a stressed voice called out to the two of them. 

“Martha! You leave that poor man alone!” A figure was running over, too caught in the sun’s glare to be properly seen from George’s angle (not to mention there was a big happy sheepdog in his way). He squinted in the sunlight, and as they extended their hand the person finally came into view. It was a young man, probably only a little older than George, with a smiling face flushed pink with embarrassment. He had hazel eyes that held a vague familiarity, as though George had seen them somewhere before. He ignored the feeling and took the boy’s hand, finally able to nudge the dog- Martha- off of him. 

“I’m so sorry about her, she loves people,” the boy explained quickly, beckoning her over. “I swear I try to get her to behave, but she just loves to make friends too much, don’t you ya silly girl?” He giggled as the dog licked his face, and George couldn’t help but smile at his cooing. 

“I can tell you love that dog very much,” he said. The boy looked up and upon noticing George’s face quickly grew worried. He gave a similarly worried stare back. 

“Oh Lordy,” the boy said, clicking his tongue and retrieving a handkerchief from his coat pocket. “You’re covered in dog slobber.” He stood up and gingerly wiped George’s face- which dusted pink involuntarily- until he was satisfied. “There. You’re right clean. You may not even need to wash your face tonight.” The boy chuckled to himself and smiled at George from under a half-lidded gaze. Suddenly, it dawned on him why the face in front of him was so strikingly familiar: it was the boy in that painting, Prince Paul. George found himself trying to remember how to speak. 

“I- You’re Paul,” he stated dumbly. Paul blushed. 

“Oh, of course! He’s heard of me,” he said, thoroughly embarrassed. “I bet you saw my portrait in the hall.” George nodded. “And Eppy told you all about it, like he always does.”

“Eppy?” George asked, and he silently noted the slight bitterness in Paul’s voice. 

“Brian Epstein. He takes care of Michael, my younger brother, and I.”

“Oh, I see. Well, he did tell me about the portrait-“

“Which brings me to my next point,” Paul interrupted. “We really shouldn’t speak to each other. After the last one, my father is simply cracking down on these rules. I can’t go anywhere. All I’ve got is my dog, really.  _ Brian Epstein  _ follows me everywhere in case I act like a filthy whore or something.” George was stunned for a moment, surprised by the harsh language Paul used to describe himself and the obvious annoyance towards his own father. It seemed rather odd for a prince, someone of such high social standing, to act so crassly on a first meeting. 

“They called you a whore?” he asked against his better judgment. Paul let out a dramatic sigh, sitting down on the grass and stretching his long legs out in front of him. 

“Nobody  _ says  _ it because they’re all members of the royal court and that means reputation,” he said. “But they mean it. Those odd little phrases like ‘titillating habits’ and ‘likes to share beds’ are all refined ways the court likes to shame me for seeking out brief pleasures. What they mean are the dirty words you hear out of my mouth. No, I’ve never been called  _ that  _ before but my father seems ready to say it. I have, however, been called a tramp.” Paul sniffed. “Multiple times.” George’s eyes widened slightly, recognizing the word from his dream. 

“By who?”

“Who else?  _ King James!  _ Don’t act a tramp, he says. But that’s my way, I guess, being a tramp. Apparently, that is a very large problem.” 

“Your father said that… to you?” George said slowly. 

“Why shouldn’t he?” Paul shrugged, scratching behind Martha’s ear absentmindedly. He almost looked a little sad, as though he’d forgotten George was there. “You heard all about Lord Sutcliffe and I. People don’t pull things like that. Not people like me, anyways. People like me sit and get married, and that’s great for a lot of wonderful people, like my brother, who’s next in line and will come of age in due time.  _ I  _ don’t want to settle down. I’m content being the tramp, if that’s what it’s going to be called.” Paul stood up, picking up Martha’s leash. He gave George a small smile. 

“Gosh, you really are a cute one, aren’t you?” he said. “Let’s keep this meeting between us and hopefully never speak again. I’d hate to have you thrown out of here.” He kissed his fingertips and pressed them lightly to George’s lips with a hushed giggle, noticing the way it made his cheeks burn red. Paul then whistled for Martha to heel and walked away into the trees, not sparing George another glance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight disclaimer: This work uses some language and ideas that are no longer considered okay. The things some of these characters say and the way they behave or think about things is just a reflection of the times and settings, and while it is something that they might believe in, that does not mean it reflects my personal beliefs.

George was unable to get much sleep that night. His thoughts refused to quiet themselves, running around in circles, biting at each other and themselves like wild dogs. He couldn’t stop thinking about Prince Paul and the way he’d tenderly pressed his fingers to his lips. It was not surprising that the young man be flirty, but it had caught him a bit off-guard. For all his words of how they could never speak to each other again, Paul was truly spoony. “You really are a cute one,” he had said, as though it hadn’t meant a thing, and then he had gone, not waiting for George to answer. He concluded that Paul was a bit of an odd character. He talked without thinking about how he was talking, leaving no emotion in his words that was not up for crazy, personal interpretation. George glued his eyes to the ceiling, unblinking. Was there use dwelling on a fleeting moment that was surely not to be experienced again? Certainly flirty Prince Paul had better places to be and better people to flirt with than George the Commoner who only wore lavish clothes when his best mate John dragged him from his tiny house far outside the castle. It was very late at night when George fell asleep. In fact, it was practically morning. 

George was woken up a few hours later by a rather short man, who grinned at him like he had no murderous glint in his eye. To keep the man in question from continuously prodding at him with his overt delight, George groaned monstrously loud and forced himself out of bed, untangling himself from the mess of covers he’d undoubtedly kicked about in his sleep. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the bastard in front of him, refusing to take the effort to hide his irritation. He was wearing striped pants that billowed outward around his legs, and a button-down shirt with a vest over it that was tucked into his trousers. Around his neck was a mysterious ring of keys, and George also noticed that the hand which retreated from his shoulder was adorned with many rings of varying types and colors. Needless to say, he was slightly confused by the (clearly strange) man in front of him.

“Well, how would you do lad?” the man said, and taking a sweeping bow he added: “The name’s Richard Starkey, though me friend calls me Ringo, and I am at your service.”

“George Harrison,” George muttered. Richard’s- Ringo’s- joy was starting to get under his skin. “And what you mean ‘friend’, have you only one?”

“Oh, the others think I’m a goblin,” Ringo said, far too chirpy for such a phrase. “‘Cause of me big nose and small size. And all me rings. And me keys. And me pretty much everything, methinks. Oh woe… is me!” He gave a small chuckle, and George couldn’t help but continue to think about how much annoyance Ringo’s absurdity caused him. 

“Yeah, well why is the goblin _here?”_ he huffed in lacking sympathy, then immediately muttered an apology.

“Ho-ho! He falls into line with the status quo,” Ringo smiled, giving a wink. “Well, Prince John has requested his good friend George Harrison to be with him for today’s activities. You’ll meet with the court and then you’ll have a nice dinner.”

“Do I get a choice in the matter?”

“Oh, no, I should think not dear boy! There is never any choice in this castle, our guarantee or your money back. But fear not! I’ll be with you the entire time, just doing me thing.” _Oh, great,_ George thought. _The oddball’s going to be following me._

“Well then I suppose I should get meself ready then,” he said. 

“Righty-ay, Righty-o,” Ringo replied. “I’ll wait outside, good George.” Once the door had shut George let out what was likely the longest sigh in history. He was remarkably tired, and Ringo’s outgoing attitude had only worsened his state of constant edge. Hopefully, when he’d changed his clothes and brushed his hair so he didn’t look like he’d just escaped from the looney bin, he’d feel less like a feral cat and more like a human person. He pulled on a new pair of trousers and tucked in his shirt, wishing sorely he could stop there as he pulled out another obnoxiously extravagant number that John had set aside for him- Bloody hell, it was tailored and everything! Begrudgingly he put the damn thing on and dragged a comb through his thick hair, dreading the day ahead. He could see why John wanted him by his side based on Ringo’s description alone. It all sounded horrendously boring: _Meet with the court. Have dinner._ The only spark of drama in the whole thing was that George was going to put a face to Lord Sutcliffe’s name and have to stifle his shocked, nervous laughter in a room full of high-rate nobles. 

When he’d stepped outside John was not only already there, but had wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug that seemed far too momentous for the occasion. It also seemed to be that Ringo had mysteriously disappeared. 

“Oi mate, what’s got you acting so happy to see me?” George wheezed, barely able to breathe in John’s tight grasp.

“Oh, you won’t believe the things I’ve heard! The monstrosities!” John pulled away with a devious grin, eyebrow cocked. “Did you know Prince Paul sabotaged all his suitors by seducing them?” George blanched.

“He _what?”_ They were walking down the hall by now, making their way down to the throne room. 

“I know! They really weren’t joking about Paul’s reputation,” John chuckled. “Apparently, it’s a custom here that you don’t get involved until the honeymoon. Some jazz about not wanting to marry out of lust or something. Anyway, Paul isn’t keen on marriage, but I guess he _is_ keen on bedding people because instead of just being a right nightmare he simply gets his suitors going. But wasn’t I right George? Something about the customs, I said!” 

“I really think we need to backtrack here mate,” George said. John just shrugged. “Let me get this straight: he evades his suitors by doing the opposite of evading them? He gets involved with his suitors-”

“Well, the half he likes.”

“Right okay, and then they can’t marry him anymore?”

“You’d be right on track.”

“What a man.” 

“Hm, I agree,” John hummed. “But that won’t be happening to me.”

“How d’you reckon?”

“Well, I’ve a strong mind.” George snorted. “Ah, ah, ah, it’s true! I’ve a strong mind, when I want to win. I won’t let Paul and his lovely half-lidded eyes seduce me, oh no. I’m going to find a way to get him to behave and marry me!” He barked laughter, causing George to flinch slightly. He didn’t much like that laughter after his dream, especially not surrounding all this talk of marriage and winning. How does someone _win_ at marriage? Nothing about it sounded healthy to George, but he knew that it could very well be John having trouble articulating his ideas. Maybe he meant another thing and said something else. Maybe it was a joke. Anything at this point was possible and believable, as George was far too tired to figure the situation out. 

“So, anyway, as riveting a topic as that was,” John said, breaking the brief silence. “Where were you all yesterday afternoon? I checked on you but you were sleeping and then next thing I know you’re nowhere to be found. Who’d taken you?” 

“Oh, I was with Mister Epstein,” George answered, slightly touched by the fact that John had taken his own time to see George, even though he’d been out cold when it happened. “He was givin’ me a tour while you had yours.”

“Oh, Brian, eh? Heard a bit about him from King James. Been taking care of his lads for ages. He became like a part of the family when Paul’s mother died not three years ago.” George stopped, the phantom sound of his footsteps echoing throughout the hall.

“Prince Paul’s mother died?” 

The throne room was filled with the ambient noise of noblemen conversing in low voices, each waiting for the meeting to begin. As soon as George had walked in he’d felt out of place. Although he resembled the men and women around him in appearance, everyone here seemed to radiate an aura of purpose, while George was, to put it simply, very lost. The room around him was great and unfamiliar, polished and shining, with high ceilings and a series of ornate chairs made specially for the people who would occupy them. Once John and George had filed into the room an exasperated servant had quickly shown them to their seats, eliminating any need for the embarrassment and confusion of sitting in the wrong place, trying hard not to be squashed amongst the hustle and bustle of the nobles. George understood the smallness, having no royal blood or experience himself. The people around him were all giants, even John, their presence taking up all the air in the room and leaving only enough for the citizens below them to simply gaze in awe. George himself did not view them with much awe, rather he was just taken aback by the amount of _mass_ they seemed to possess in such an environment (whether that be good or bad), but he could tell: should someone come along to worship them like temple gods, they’d be ready. 

After a short period in which everyone became properly situated and placed, everyone’s posture notably straight, King James called the court to attention by ringing a bell that precariously sat on the arm of his throne. When everybody’s heads had turned in his direction- in perfect unison, oddly enough, although George was surely a bit late- His Majesty cleared his throat and began what was no doubt a prepared speech.

“Ladies and Gentleman of the Royal Court,” King James began, low voice reverberating through the room. “We gather here to discuss the next suitor for my son, Prince James Paul. With luck, he will be the one to finally bring him to his senses and convince him to marry.” A proud, almost cocky, smile spread across John’s face ever so subtly, and if George didn’t know any better he would think it was the cold, calculating smirk of a scheming man. “You will each question him to your heart’s content, so long as that content is within reason and does not go prying into matters that do not concern this kingdom. We will then vote on whether or not this man, Prince John Winston Lennon, is a good fit for my son. Remember- your decision could be the one that seals the fate of my kingdom for better or for worse. I will have no messing around when it comes to the marriage of our Prince. Is that understood?” There was a rippling murmur of affirmation throughout the crowd, during which George caught the eye of one of the strangers in the court. He had never seen the man before in his life, but he knew at once it was none other than Lord Sutcliffe himself. For why else would he be staring at John, the man set to marry Paul any day now if all went smoothly, with such a suspicious look in his eyes? George tried to look away, but he was already caught.

“Now,” King James said. “Who shall question Prince John first?” Lord Sutcliffe raised his hand, never ceasing eye contact with either George or John. “Ah yes, of course- Lord Stuart Sutcliffe. You are often active during these discussions, no doubt due to your prior… involvement, though you claim it was a moment of weakness. Please rise, the stage is yours.” Lord Sutcliffe gave King James an irritated glare, no doubt relating to his comment about him and his son, but soon turned back to John.

“Prince John,” he said, moving to stand from his seat. “You came here saying that you were set on marrying His Majesty’s son, the heir to the throne. You say this knowing Paul’s-” King James shot him a warning glare, and Lord Sutcliffe quickly corrected himself, though not without his bitterness. _“Prince_ Paul’s history. My apologies Your Majesty, it is hard to remember a title after you have been familiar enough to bed someone.” Behind George, one of the servants let out a scandalized gasp. He supposed she must be new here. 

“Such impudence would be a bad idea for someone who would not be here without the help of that prince, Lord Sutcliffe,” King James reminded him. “Perhaps you should do the bare minimum of addressing him appropriately in official proceedings. Now, carry on your questioning, kindly _without_ an attitude towards your king.” 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lord Sutcliffe said quietly, before re-focusing. “Prince John, you say you are strong enough to resist this man’s charms. But as a man who knows them intimately- my apologies again, Your Majesty- I can say it is not so easy. How do you know you can trust yourself to save face around such a seducer? After all, many have come before you claiming the same thing, only to fall victim to his methods in a matter of days. I should know, I was one.” King James coughed once. “Apologies, Your Majesty.” John smiled.

“Lord Sutcliffe, things are different now,” he explained. “There are rules in place, and might I add, I do not view Prince Paul the same way that the others do. The others viewed him as a marriage proposal, a means to an end. And lust can easily become that end that Paul is a means to. I can see beyond whatever… charms, you called them? Whatever charms he is layering on. I can tell that what he really is is nothing more than a foolish boy. I will simply work around this foolishness. Teach him through love and trust that there’s no reason to play that fool anymore.” Lord Sutcliffe nodded, satisfied with John’s answer, and promptly sat down. 

“Thank you, Lord Sutcliffe. Any other members of the court who wish to question?” King James asked. Many noblemen raised their hands, taking turns asking John a series of questions which he answered with ease, never even breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, George remained on edge, always reconciling with the lingering fear that someone might come along and ask _him_ a question, which he would answer and in the process terribly cock up that answer, embarrassing himself in front of some of the most important people he’d ever met. Still, John’s air of confidence and self-assurance allowed George to relax ever so slightly over time. Finally, after many a nobleman had asked and been answered, one woman seated near the middle raised her hand, peering directly at George. George peered back, unsure of what else to do, his palms slowly beginning to sweat. He prayed that King James would disregard her in favor of someone else, but unfortunately, she seemed the only one set to volunteer at the moment.

“Ah, Lady Jane Asher,” King James smiled. “Wife to Lord Gerald Scarfe. You may question.”

“You do not need to state whom I have married, Your Majesty, I am quite capable of being a person,” Lady Asher said pointedly. “Now, Prince John. I noticed you have brought a friend with you today.” All eyes turned to George, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I was wondering his purpose.”

“Ah, yes, my good friend George Harrison,” John said. “Well, he has accompanied me here today to offer me his support. We all get by with a little help from our friends, my Lady. I also thought it would be good for him to observe how the Royal Court proceeds, as he will undoubtedly be spending a lot of time here should I be marrying Prince Paul.” Lady Asher nodded.

“So I see,” she said. Then, she turned to George. “A question for him, though.” She pointed a finger at him, staring him dead in the eyes. “Should Prince John fail, will you be prepared to take his place as the next possible suitor for the King’s son, Prince James Paul?” George opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Was he prepared? No, he would say not, if he were to be honest. He was barely ready for this meeting, let alone becoming a suitor to Paul. 

“It is a lovely question, Lady Asher,” John answered, and George let out a quiet sigh of relief. Thank his friend for being there to cover him when he was tragically inept in a situation. “But I am afraid Mister Harrison cannot be a suitor.”

“And why not?”

“He is not of royal blood. He is of the same class as the men working the stands. That is certainly not a good choice for a man of such high-standing as Prince Paul.” George looked down at his lap in shame.

“I ask you again,” Lady Asher said. George raised his head. “Why not?” 

“Lady Asher,” King James warned, “now is not the time. Please, if you have no further questions, sit down.” 

“I have just one more,” she replied. “Prince John, if I may… What are you planning on doing to get to the point of marrying Prince Paul? Surely you know he is a boy of little trust.” John merely smiled, the same calculating smile George had seen him smile before when King James had talked about his hope of John being the last suitor. 

“Why, I simply help him be the best that he should be.” 

“Alright then,” Lady Asher sniffed, taking her seat. “I am hereby done with my questioning, Your Majesty.” Shortly thereafter the meeting was officially adjourned, and one by one the noblemen filed out of the throne room, murmuring their own private conversations. George couldn’t hear what it was they were saying, but some nagging thought in the back of his mind told him they were talking about him and not in a good way, either. He followed John outside aimlessly, the two men walking in silence until they finally reached an empty hallway. 

“Boy, that court really dissected me, eh?” John said, giving George a grin as he playfully nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. George chuckled. “Wanted to know everything about me!”

“Think it has somethin’ to do with you’re marrying the King’s son?” he replied. John tapped his chin, pretending to be deep in thought.

“I wonder!” They laughed, both grateful that the meeting was finally over and they could get back to their own lives for a while, at least until dinner. “You know George it’d be grand if we could spend a little time back at my room, catch up on some of these events that have happened to us in days passed. I’m sure it’s all one big adventure.” George smiled.

“I’ll try to be there but I think I need meself a moment to collect my thoughts in my room. The court dissected you alright but I felt like Lady Asher was starin’ straight into me soul. Caught me well off-guard.” 

“Aye,” John agreed. “Well, I’ll be seeing you then. And if not in my room, then at dinner!”

“Aye, mate!” George called as John dashed down the halls in the other direction, almost knocking all the laundry out of some poor maid’s hands. He chuckled to himself as he watched John apologize profusely before taking off again. With one last smile, he turned on his heel and began walking in the direction of his room, trying to remember as hard as he could where exactly it was. Unfortunately, he wasn’t always good at remembering things. George looked around him, letting out a tired sigh.

“Methinks a man looks lost,” a voice said from behind as a hand rested on his shoulder. George whirled around. It was Richard Starkey- Ringo- the man appearing out of seemingly nowhere. 

“Where the hell did you come from?” he asked, too startled to remember his respect. 

“From behind you,” Ringo replied cheekily. “Now come on, your room is actually this way. Although don’t get me wrong, lad, it was a good attempt.” He steered George down a previously ignored hallway, paying no mind to his utters of protest. Soon George gave up entirely and took to trailing behind Ringo, though he did not do it happily. Ringo’s carefree livelihood still seemed to irk him, even though he was significantly more awake than during their previous meeting and had been in a good mood himself not five minutes ago. Soon Ringo had pushed open the door to George’s room and ushered him inside, closing it behind (to his dismay) both of them. Before George could say anything the man was opening his wardrobe, searching through the fancy clothes he’d been gifted.

“Now before you make yourself at home,” George scoffed. “I’d like to know what you’re doin’ here!” Ringo smiled.

“Aren’t me intentions obvious lad?” he asked. “I’m helpin’ you get ready for that dinner you’ve got to go to with your mate.”

“Yeah? Well speakin’ of me mate, I was goin’ to meet him back in his room.”

“Oh, hate to disappoint you laddie but I doubt you’d get the chance. Both of you got to get ready. Don’t want to keep Macca waiting, now do we?” George frowned.

“Macca?”

“Why me sincerest apologies Mister Harrison,” Ringo said. “Macca’s the nickname I’ve coined for the boy, Prince Paul you should know ‘im as.”

“I thought servants weren’t supposed to give royals nicknames.”

“Oh, we’re a special case,” he said. “Been buddies for three years. Between me and you lad, sometimes he tells me ‘Ringo, you’re me only friend since Mum.’ Makes me rather sad. I mean, he’s got a younger brother, you know? Aye, poor lad indeed, methinks! Now, try this one on for size.” He thrust a bundle of clothes into George’s hands, barely giving him time to process what Ringo had said. He supposed that was intentional. He ducked behind the screen that had mysteriously manifested in his room, presumably during his time in the throne room, and begin to put the outfit on. In the meantime, Ringo kept talking. 

“This friend of yours lad,” he said. “John Lennon was it? Aye, he’s givin’ me vibes. What’s he up to all day long? What’s he schemin’ behind those glasses of ‘is? Mighty suspicious methinks. Oh, well, everything always turns out well in the end I suppose. Probably just me worries for Paul is all. At least, I sure hope so. I jus’ think it’s a bit weird he said ‘should be’ instead of ‘can be’ you notice that lad?” George puzzled for a moment. He knew the phrase Ringo was talking about, but he couldn’t recall ever seeing Ringo himself in the room. Not even once, and he was sure he’d remember a face like his. 

“You were in the throne room during the meeting?” he asked. 

“Oh sure, in one shape or form. I said I’d be followin’ you and just doing me thing, didn’t I?” George shrugged. Ringo was right, he had said that, so he went against his lack of satisfaction and accepted the answer. He finished getting dressed and stepped out from behind the screen to mess with his cravat in the mirror. 

“God I hate these things,” he muttered, trying to make it feel less like it was slowly choking him to death without the whole thing coming undone. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to them.”

“Thas’ why I don’t tangle with them,” Ringo said. George nearly jumped. He’d somehow forgotten the other man was in the room, even though it’d only been a few short minutes. 

“Christ, you gave me a start!” he laughed, trying to brush it off. 

“I’ve got that effect on people,” Ringo smiled. “I think it’s me face. Now come along lad, we ought to get your likeness over to the dinin’ room.” He opened the door of George’s room, standing aside to let him pass. They walked down the halls in silence, and George couldn’t help but feel slightly bitter that Ringo wasn’t talking anymore. It was rather peculiar. He’d been so ticked off by the cheerful sound of the man’s voice, yet now he fully expected him to go out of his way to fill the uncomfortable void between them with noise. It was safe to say that it was Ringo himself that rubbed George the wrong way, although he couldn’t really figure out why. A mental note was made to reexamine his prejudices towards size and appearance. (Because surely stoutness didn’t automatically equate to one’s being a goblin, oh no, George was being stupid.) It wasn’t long after they started walking did they run into John, who practically ran George over as he sprinted into him. 

“George!” John shouted, a bit too loud for George’s tastes. 

“Hey mate,” he replied. “Sorry I didn’t get the chance to get to your room. I sure hope you weren’t too lonely without me there to keep you company.”

“Ah, it’s fine man. Brian Epstein had servants all over me, dressing me and getting me all spruced up. I was barely able to breathe let alone invite a friend over.”

“Yeah, I was gettin’ forced to get ready too. You know, it really is nice they’re lettin’ us go together. Especially seein’ how boring that damn meeting was. Christ! Company would be great for dinner if it’s even a little bit like how _that_ was.” John laughed. 

“Aye, that’s for sure. Boy, do I hate those things. I’ve been to too many during my time, I think.”

“Me too. And I’ve only been to one. At least Lord Sutcliffe added that nice dash of drama. Sleepin’ with His Majesty’s Son seems like a Shakespearean mistake to me. Livened the whole place up with the horrified gasps of middle-aged nobles!” The two shared another round of laughter, and George couldn’t help but think about how relaxing it was to be in John’s presence this way. It almost felt like he wasn’t in someone else’s home, expected to play nobleman with no training yet without a hitch. 

“So who helped you get ready?” John asked. George shrugged. 

“Lad named Richard Starkey-“

“But he goes by the name of Ringo!” George almost asked John if he’d met him until he realized that the sound hadn’t come from John’s mouth. He looked down to find Ringo walking beside them. “The pleasure is mine, your Royal Highness.” Something akin to disdain flashed across John’s face at the short man, but he managed some sort of grimace-like smile. Perhaps it was a bit more of a smile-like grimace, George thought. 

“Erm, hello… Richard,” he managed, not bothering to take Ringo’s hand, which had extended outward. George’s heart panged with sympathy as Ringo withdrew it with a slight sadness. Thankfully he perked up again, his smile returning full force. 

“I know, I know, not everyone can get past me face.” He began to walk ahead, turning back only to say: “By the way lad, I’d check me pockets if I were you.” Dumbfounded, John reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling from it a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it, still quite perplexed, and began to read it out loud. 

“Good day your Royal Highness, I am not-“ John made an irritated noise in the back of his throat that reminded George strikingly of a leopard’s growl. “I am not a goblin. Ta-ta. Signed, Richard Starkey, but your Katherine-Minola-to-be calls me Ringo.” George stifled a laugh as he thrust the paper back into his pocket with another loud groan.

“Well, he certainly got you,” George grinned wickedly. “I don’t even know how he got the paper in your pocket. Must carry them around, eh?” John’s face did not lighten by a wide margin, rather a narrow one that went the opposite way. 

“The nerve of some people here,” John grumbled. “I mean honestly!” George just shrugged and supposed that John should take a chance at removing the stick so far up his arse. They didn’t say another word until they reached the door, John too annoyed to hold a conversation properly. Occasionally George would catch him muttering under his breath about the disrespect Ringo had shown him, putting a clear emphasis on his referring to Paul as his “Katherine Minola.” 

“I’m nothing like Petruchio!” he said suddenly, making George jump. “Am I?” 

“Uh, nah mate,” he replied, slightly concerned for his friend. “You alright there man? Ya look red, yet white as a sheet.” 

“I’ve been embarrassed! Is that what Prince Paul thinks of me?” George shrugged, thinking back to his meeting with Paul in the gardens. 

“I really don’t think Paul knows anything right now,” he answered. Then, muttering, he added, “I don’t think he’s ticked off at you, lad.” John nodded stiffly, straightening his jacket with a huff as they came upon a door, Ringo nowhere to be seen. 

“Good,” he said. He took a deep breath and put on a broad smile. “Now come on George. It’s go time.”

John pushed open the doors for them, revealing a large dinner table laden with countless types of food. George’s breath hitched. He couldn’t wait to sit down and eat. There had to be days worth of food at their disposal, all for them to eat. Somewhere in the room, a drum was being played. George looked up to see Ringo playing, the man giving him a subtle wink before Brian spoke from across the room. 

“Now presenting his Royal Highness, Prince John Winston Lennon,” he shouted, voice loud and clear. “And his companion, George Harrison.” The two took their seats, John at one head of the table and George next to him. They waited a few moments, the air buzzing with anticipation until Brian finally opened his mouth again. 

“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for- His Royal Highness, Prince James Paul McCartney!” George nearly choked on his own spit. There, in the doorway, was Paul himself, looking sheepish. 

“Please Eppy,” he said as he took his seat at the opposite head of the table. “You can just call me Paul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the second chapter!! Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and kudos on the last chapter! I'm glad you seemed to enjoy that one and I hope you also enjoy this one!! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight disclaimer: This work uses some language and ideas that are no longer considered okay. The things some of these characters say and the way they behave or think about things is just a reflection of the times and settings, and while it is something that they might believe in, that does not mean it reflects my personal beliefs.

As soon as he noticed George sitting beside John, Paul blanched. George could see in his eyes he was about as shocked- horrified, even- to see him again. If he hadn’t taken a seat already, George wondered if the poor man would’ve fainted. None of this escaped John’s watchful eyes. He shot George a questioning look, a silent “what happened” to which George simply shrugged his shoulders. He decided that since the man was set on marrying Paul, it was better he did not know about how much Paul was set on _not_ marrying _him._

“So, Paul,” John said, half of a smile on his face, as their first course was set out in front of them. George prepared to start eating only to find the impossible number of utensils laid out before him. He tried to remember John’s advice from years prior about which direction to go in and took a wild guess. Meanwhile, John continued his attempt at a conversation. “What do you necessarily… do?” Paul seemed slightly put off by the question but quickly recovered. 

“I wander around, keep myself occupied,” he said, peering at John under familiar, half-lidded eyes. George silently noticed and thought he would sooner end the exchange if he were in John’s position. “This place is huge. Sometimes I get a little bit bored and just lay on my bed with _nothing to do,_ but I’m sure you can join me there and help with that.” Brian loudly cleared his throat. “A little.” Brian cleared his throat again, quieter this time. “Fine! We’ll take a stroll through the gardens or something, _God_ nobody here is any fun!” 

“Orders from the top,” Brian murmured into his ear. “Quit embarrassing yourself and your father and just _behave_.” Paul made a face, stabbing his fork into his food. George compared it to his but only succeeded in realizing that Paul was, strangely enough, seeing as he was the prince, holding his fork in the wrong hand. 

“It’s alright Mister Epstein,” John said. “Paul was only joking. Now, do you by any chance have any hobbies?” Paul smiled. 

“Why don’t you find out?” Off of Brian’s harsh glare, he groaned and changed his answer. “I like to read. And I play the lute, sort of.” 

“You like music?” John asked, clearly interested. 

“I do.” 

“I’d love to hear you play, I’m sure you’re simply wonderful.”

“It’s kind of you love, but no.” 

“Well, I do have a book recommendation,” John said, a hopeful smile on his face. “Surely we can read together.”

“Oh yes, we can read. What’s the book?”

“One of Shakespeare’s- King Lear.”

“I’ll write it down.” Paul clapped his hands twice. “Eppy? Be a dear, won’t you?”

“Anything for you, deary,” Brian replied, leaving his post and producing a paper and pen. “King Lear you said? Alright then Paul, here you go.” 

“Thank you.” Brian just nodded, returning to his place at the back wall. There was a tense moment of silence as George’s eyes darted back and forth between John and Paul, neither of them having properly touched their food, though they had failed to properly engage in conversation, too. George was not apart of the discussion himself, he wouldn’t be, seeing as he wasn’t exactly like the rest of them, but the tension in the air was beginning to get to him. He wanted something to happen- anything really, that’s how much it itched. He wanted Paul to grab his steak knife and thrust it right under John’s nose, screaming hysterics about how he’d never marry for the rest of his days as everyone jumped to restrain him. He wanted Paul to grab John by the collar and kiss him, right there on the table with Brian, Ringo and him being forced to watch like a bunch of voyeurs before Brian eventually snapped out of his shock and pulled the two men apart. George wanted _drama_ dammit! Wasn’t that what his Royal Highness daring Prince Paul was all about?

“So, John,” Paul finally said, eyes still half-lidded. The man was practically oozing suggestion, although John seemed to dutifully ignore it. “What do _you_ like to do for fun?”

“I enjoy reading, and drawing I suppose,” John replied. “I also try my hand at poetry.” 

“Drawing, you say?” Paul asked, suddenly very interested. George stared down at his now empty plate, growing slightly nervous. He could feel Brian watching them. “I knew an artist once. He was lovely.” 

“Paul,” Brian hissed. “Not now.”

“Oh, sod off, Eppy,” Paul snapped. He took a steadying breath before continuing. “I knew an artist once, you know. Like I said, he was a lovely man. He was especially good to me. He’d paint, and I’d give him the inspiration to do so.” 

“Inspiration?” John asked. “Are you saying you modeled for him?”

“Precisely.” 

“Weren’t these portraits a little bit indecent?” John said, raising an eyebrow. Paul simply chuckled, dipping his finger in his wine glass. George watched, transfixed alongside John, as Paul clambered onto the table and ran said finger across John’s lips, leaning forward until his lips nearly grazed his ear. 

“Indecent…” Paul practically groaned out. “I like to be indecent, darling.” John gulped and, to save his pride, looked downwards and away. George looked over at Brian, who was already making his way over. Before anything “indecent” could happen Brian had pulled Paul back into his seat, his face beet red. 

“I am so sorry, Your Highness,” he said. “He’s like this sometimes. He enjoys getting a rise out of people. I promise you, we’re trying.” John had a startled, flushed expression on his face, clearly impressed by Paul having enough guts to pull such a stunt. George quietly chuckled at his face. _Didn’t think it was going to be like this, did you?_

“T-Temptress,” John squeaked, his face still a brilliant red all the way down to his neck. He licked his lips once. “I t-taste wine.” Paul burst out laughing, trying to no avail to use his hand to stifle his incessant giggles. George tried to hide his own smile, having an acute difficulty to dismiss the sheer hilarity of the entire situation. Meanwhile, Brian was horrified, but knowing he could do nothing about it he retreated. 

“I hope you aren’t too excited John,” he grinned. “Because you’ll have to wait until _after_ dinner.” Somewhere in the room, Brian let out a very high-pitched and very pained noise. 

“No, I won’t be waiting for anything,” John smiled. “I’m going to decline your offer.” Paul shrugged, humming something. 

“It’s your loss,” he said in a mocking, sing-song way. 

“Do you treat all of your suitors this way?”

“If I said yes, would you take that steak knife and kill me?” George looked up in alarm and found less of a smile than he’d hoped. 

“No, I wouldn’t kill you.”

“Then perhaps I do.” 

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Paul said, peering at John with furrowed brows. 

“This artist of yours, what’s his name?” John asked. 

“You know his name,” Paul sneered. 

“Were you two in love, with how much you shared a bed?”

“Love and lust are two different emotions, _Prince John._ He didn’t take me on a marriage bed, it was the chaise in his studio. He didn’t propose to me, I took my clothes off.” He paused, and George saw something flash in his eyes for a single moment, as though he had realized how much he said. “Why do you want to know?” 

“It was only a question.”

“They all say it’s a question. Want to pry so you can talk, go somewhere else. Look through his sketchbooks and see how telling all his little drawings are and then spread lies.” 

“I have no intention of lying, Paul,” John assured him. George saw him remember Lady Asher’s remark about trusting not exactly being Paul’s default. “I wouldn’t spread this information without your express permission.” 

“Well… okay.” It was the first time George had seen Paul look apprehensive. He’d always been described as disgustingly shameless, and perhaps he _did_ seem a bit shameless, yet here he was, quite nervous. 

“What was the painting of?” John inquired. “Now you don’t have to tell me-“

“You want to know what the painting was?” Paul asked, smiling so subtly, the faintest trace of mischief in his eyes. “Do you want that bluntly, Mr. Lennon?” John smiled back. 

“Let’s go with yes, bluntly.” Paul took a sip of wine. 

“It’s a portrait of me, half-clothed,” he said. “Picture it in your head, imagine me with no coat, no fancy tie or vest, just me with my shirt open and neck exposed. I’m lounging on the chaise, a mess.”

“I’m imagining,” John replied. George could feel Brian’s uneasy cringing from where he sat, and he’d focus on it more if he was not too busy inadvertently trying to imagine what Paul was describing. 

“Good,” Paul said. “My pose is considered too suggestive, I’m like a… what was it you said? A temptress. I’m wide open, inviting if you will. I’m wearing trousers, in one way or another.” 

“Surprising,” John remarked, earning a light giggle from Paul. 

“Yes, quite, considering this a portrait of me almost immediately post-coitus.” George nearly spat out his wine, suddenly realizing why this painting of Stuart’s was such a big deal. He could hardly think about what it was like for Paul to go through life constantly reminded his father knew what he looked like after having sex. He looked over at John. If the man was surprised, he hid it well. 

“Now do you see why I’m such a mess in that portrait? I _looked_ like I’d just been with someone. It made the old people blanch. They were horrified. Me? I loved the painting. Even though I was the subject there’s no denying Stuart’s talent.”

“It was an _illegal_ portrait,” Brian said out of the blue, stunning all of them, and George for one was genuinely taken aback by the fact he was still able to talk after listening to the conversation. 

“It was not, I commissioned him.” 

“With sex?” John said. 

“A valid form of payment, in my experience.”

“Isn’t that by definition prostitution?”

“Riddle me this John- would the Royal Court convict their prize heir with prostitution? Of course they wouldn’t. Sure, I traded my body for goods but none of those men and women want to believe their precious little prince is a whore.”

“That’s quite enough! Please talk about something else at once!” Brian shouted, growing frantic. John put up a hand to silence him. 

“No that’s quite alright Mister Epstein, I want to hear what Paul has to say,” he said. 

“What more can I say, John?” Paul replied. “Me and Stuart Sutcliffe had an amorous love affair. We were all over each other.” 

“Did a painting always come out of these meetings?”

“No, we were also in it for the sex, believe it or not.” George twiddled his thumbs, acutely aware of his presence, although clearly, no one else noticed he was there anymore. “But he did sketch me a lot.”

“It would be nice to see them.”

“Thank you but we’re not there yet.”

“No, I won’t judge, I promise. I know you’re a bit on edge but I’m not like the others.”

“I think I was clear in my answer,” Paul said, drumming his fingers against the table as he stared John down. 

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” They ate in silence for a while, and George couldn’t figure out whether or not it was the comfortable kind. While on the one hand people seemed relaxed, George could note the stress in both John and Paul’s eyes. He stared a little harder at Paul specifically and noticed, to his surprise, a slight powdery texture underneath his eyes, a telling sign that some kind of makeup was used to cover up especially prominent dark circles. George then turned to John and found the man biting at his thumb, a nervous habit he’d picked up over the years that George had learned to recognize. Just when George was finally going to speak up himself in order to break the crippling quiet that had consumed them, John asked another question. 

“Why is it that your utensils are flipped? Surely you’d hold your knife in your _right_ hand?” Paul immediately flushed, clearly embarrassed by the question. Perhaps George could even go as far as to say he looked humiliated. Whatever it was, the man was not blushing because he was flattered. 

“Well, I…” Paul chuckled nervously, shifting in his seat. “Maybe it’s because you are sitting opposite to me?”

“No,” John said with a shake of his head. “It’s not that. If it was, then I’d assume you were holding them correctly.” Something was hanging in the air, some sort of pressing force that radiated from Paul and threatened to crush everyone caught in its field. 

“May we drop the subject?” he asked quietly. John nodded, though he was not satisfied. Paul visibly relaxed. 

“One more question,” John said. Paul was on the edge of his seat again. “What’s your relationship…” He pointed a finger at Ringo, who stared down at it like it was nothing more than an annoying branch stuck in his way (George suddenly felt a bit of respect for him). “To _that?”_

“Oh, that’s my friend Ringo,” Paul said, eyes softening. John tried to hide his slight grimace, but a bit of it slipped through his facade nonetheless. 

“Friend?”

“Sure. We’ve been friends for three years now. He turned up shortly after my mother died. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Oh, no, it’s just… have you considered the possibility that he’s a threat?”

“No, Ringo wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“I mean from the other world.”

“Are you trying to tell me Ringo’s some kind of goblin?” Paul asked, voice rising. “Because I’m tired of hearing it!”

“Paul, I would not try to insult one of your friends so directly,” John replied. “Please, I mean it. It was only a harmless little question.” Paul’s eyes cast down in shame. 

“I know,” he whispered. “It’s just that he’s my friend, you know.” John smiled, the same smile from back in the courtroom that made George shudder, just a little. 

“I know, darling.” 

Dinner went on without another hitch. Paul and John conversed about nothing for the next half hour or so over food and drink, with George more or less silent for the duration of the meal. He wasn’t complaining, however. Sometimes it seemed that if he piped up he was interfering with far more than a simple talk and would sabotage some kind of plan, not to mention that fact that Paul was essentially flirting throughout the entire thing. George doubted he’d be able to properly handle those remarks should they suddenly be thrown his way, Hell, even if he’d been warned. John, on the other hand, took them rather perfectly, not giving into them but not writing them off in a rude enough manner to kinder any hatred in Paul. George could tell from where he was sitting that Brian was rather impressed by John’s ability to resist what Paul was doing, and it made him wonder how easily these suitors failed. Did some of them give in as soon as Paul clambered onto the table? He knew that he would’ve found that more funny than tragic, probably one of the founding reasons he had never been apart of a Royal Court meeting, or whatever they were really called, before. 

Before any of them knew it, dinner had ended and they were set to go back to their rooms. George was happy with the meal, having eaten his weight in things he’d likely never have gotten the chance to touch in a lifetime if he hadn’t met John, although the others looked less so. George could see the hunch of John’s shoulders as he brooded over the tabletops, working to calculate his next response or question as he slowly ate his food. George thought (only thought) he caught the glimmer of stress in Paul’s eyes throughout the whole thing and the flash of relief when their plates were cleared. It wasn’t the ideal atmosphere for any kind of meal, but George blissfully ignored it and contented himself with the tasty dishes they were served. There were little things he enjoyed more than good, perfectly-cooked food. 

John and George walked out of the dining hall together, at first in comfortable silence, but of course, it was not too long before one of them broke it to talk about something, anything, that had occurred. John was particularly fixated on Paul going to such lengths as to climb on the table to rile John up.

“It’s incredible nobody cared to pull him back immediately,” John said, shaking his head.

“I don’t know, I was pretty stunned,” George replied. “I bet you nobody knew how to react right away.”

“But surely this has happened before.”

“Aye, keep tellin’ yourself that mate, it might make you feel humbler than you actually are.” John’s arm darted from his side to grab George, who quickly ducked out of the way, both laughing as John said something along the lines of: “You daft git!” It was a wonder neither of them ran into any walls.

“But really, Paul he… He has guts. Courage. He’s reckless. He’ll do anything by the looks of it. We barely know each other, imagine what he could do if he knew any of my weaknesses.”

“Probably doesn’t take weaknesses to break you,” George said, cracking a grin. John’s expression stayed sour.

“I’m serious George,” he said. “You don’t understand, you didn’t grow up in a royal environment. The rules here are not something you mess with. There’s a little reason behind everything. A bullshit one sometimes, yeah, but there is one. If your high and mighty father told you not to flirt with strangers, you don’t flirt with strangers. If you do, they might run you out.” George raised his eyebrows, perplexed.

“So how come they haven’t run him out?”

“Could be at least two reasons. Number one: the kingdom’s dying, they need a suitor fast and they can’t wait for Paul’s younger brother, freshly thirteen, to come of age. Number two: A promise from a deceased loved one who said ‘you can’t lay a finger on my beloved, beautiful son or I’ll rise from my grave or have God smite you all’ or something of the nature. Who knows why Paul’s still allowed to be here? The point is, they are chaining him up with rules as is, and he finds a way around every single one of them.”

“Oh, so he’s clever ain’t he? Findin’ loopholes in daddy’s laws?” 

“Exactly!” John exclaimed. “Clever is tricky, George. I had no idea this boy had the guts that he does. I’ll have to rework everything for the possibility that whatever the Hell happened in the dining room happens again!” George stared at him for a moment, trying to process everything that just came out of his mate’s mouth. 

“Yeah, have a good time goin’ at that, love,” he said slowly. “I think we’d better get to our rooms now, yeah?” John nodded.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Goodnight mate.”

“G’night.” They parted ways, going down their respective hallways in tense, deafening silence. George had the feeling this marriage business was making his friend a little bit crazy. He wasn’t normally so stressed, and he never tried to bring up George’s background, not even for the sake of explanation. Paul was driving John completely mad, and he couldn’t even tell. _What I would give for that kind of ignorance,_ George thought to himself, pushing his door open. He thought about Paul a little bit more as he flopped onto the bed, oddly awake despite eating massive amounts of food and having a night of restless sleep. Half of the things he said weren’t phrases that George fancied able to come out of any nobles mouth, let alone His Royal Highness himself. That boy threw the word sex around like it was nothing but a ragdoll to abuse at his disposal. He was pretty sure if someone else used sex in a sentence anywhere in this castle they’d garner a reaction of scandalised gasps, but in that dining room, none of that mattered. Brian sure made no move to stop him, at least not because of the word. George rolled off the bed, eyes screwed shut. All of these events were starting to get to him. He needed a breath of fresh air and fast.

The cold, nighttime air stung against his skin, George having neglected to wear a jacket. He had shed his fancy clothes and changed into a loose-fitting tunic and trousers, feeling more like himself than he ever had since he’d arrived. His bare feet padded across the cool grass, stray blades whipping at his legs and leaving shallow cut-marks in their wake. The moon shone against the pond and cast the world in an eerie light. A particularly strong breeze that was just barely weak enough not to be considered wind shifted the leaves on the trees and blew George’s hair into his face. He let out a long sigh and continued walking, making his way towards the tunnel of trees. He wondered if he was allowed out into the gardens this late or if they didn’t care. He hummed a simple tune he’d learned back home to himself as he walked along the freezing walkway, too immersed in letting himself be at peace to notice the harsh sting of the stone. The tunnel was even darker now that it was night, although the lanterns overhead were still burning their golden hue. Before he could ever have stopped it, sadness overcame George. Everything was so foreign and strange, and he had never felt more out of place, yet in the gardens, everything was so familiar. It made him long for things he couldn’t name, a dull ache in his side that threatened to spread to his lungs and suffocate him.

As he left the tunnel of trees, a mysterious sound befell George’s ears. It was coming from a distant direction, carried to him on the wind. He walked a few steps towards where he thought it may be, and found that it came from a circle of flowers, a clearing that held soft grass and a pond filled with water lilies that almost seemed to glow. He quietly approached, noticing more and more how much the soft sound resembled crying. Pulling back the plants that obscured his vision, he was quite shocked to find Prince Paul sitting with his legs tucked all the way to his chest, Martha laying protectively beside him with her head against his leg. Before he could make his presence known, Paul began talking in a low, strained voice.

“I don’t know what to do,” he murmured, shaking with sobs. “I’m not ready to settle down. Everything’s moving too fast.” He lowered a hand to scratch behind Martha’s ear. “Mam would know what to do. She always knew what to do.” Martha whined, the noise almost bordering on a mournful howl. Paul sighed, taking her head into his hands. “I know, I miss her, too. She was the only one who ever seemed to have any real faith in me.” The sight pulled at George’s heartstrings, and despite logic telling him to simply leave, his sympathy was telling him to speak.

“Your Highness, are you alright?” he asked. Paul whirled around, alarmed.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, face slowly softening despite his tense shoulders. “I thought you were Eppy or someone. How long have you been standing there?” Paul was wearing a button-down shirt and simple trousers not unlike George’s own, although they were of a noticeably higher-quality fabric. There were tear tracks on his face.

“Not long. I heard cryin’ so I came to see what was wrong. Mind if I sit?” There were dark circles underneath Paul’s red-rimmed eyes, all the makeup gone.

“Sure. You didn’t have to check on me.”

“Why should I leave you? You look like you could use some comfort.” The knuckles on Paul’s hands were tinged red as well as his cheeks and nose, suggesting he’d been out in the cold for quite a while.

“Oh, there’s no need to bother… It’s not like we’re going to be married.” George took his seat beside Paul, folding his hands in his lap and trying not to seem on edge for both their sakes.

“Well, we don’t need to be married. We could just be friends.” George could hardly believe what he was saying. Paul chuckled lightly, though he was not of malicious intent.

“I’ve already got a friend.”

“So do I. You could have multiple friends. I’ve already met Ringo.” Paul smiled softly, sad doe eyes crinkling.

“Clever nice lad, isn’t he? Okay then, let’s be friends. At least for tonight. Now go on, ask me a question.”

George thought a moment before curiosity struck his mind. “Why is it that Brian writes for you? I’m sure I probably sound stupid but I’m not exactly familiar with noble customs. Is it a symbol of wealth?”

Paul hunched his shoulders. “How superstitious are you?”

“Not very.” 

“Then you aren’t like the majority of people here. Alright, I’ll tell you. I’m left-handed. It’s supposed to be bad luck, a sign of witchcraft. The devil sits on your left shoulder. That’s also why my utensils are flipped. We just hope nobody will notice because it’s less conspicuous than writing. My father doesn’t want me using my left hand in front of strangers in any way in case it makes them angry. But I can’t really use my knife well in my right hand and I’d probably cut myself. A lot of us are lucky and are somewhat good at both depending on the task, but I got the short end of the stick. I’m left-handed, through and through. Most everything’s flipped.”

“Is that also why you can’t show John your lute playin’?” George asked. Paul nodded. “I bet your da’ is very protective of that.”

“He is. It’s frustrating. I can’t do anything I like to do in front of other people. I have to  _ think  _ before I shake somebody’s hand, which is a hassle when you’re a prince because you have to shake  _ everybody’s  _ hand.” 

“I’m sorry the people here are so narrow-minded.” Paul merely shrugged.

“Just the way it is I suppose. Now, can I ask you a question?”

“I don’t see why not. I warn you though, I’m a borin’ person.”

“Why does John want you here so bad?”

“He gets kind of nervous. He doesn’t want to fail, he’s almost afraid of it. I guess he feels he can perform better if I’m here with him, or that I’ll provide quick comfort if he ends up ‘blowin’ it.’ Truth be told I don’t really know. We’re best mates I guess- we do ev’rything together.” There was a noise from somewhere in the garden that caused Martha to perk up. Paul turned his head in its general direction.

“What is it?” George asked, but he was quickly shushed by Paul pressing a finger to his lips. 

“Not here,” he whispered. He turned to George, a sly smile forming on his face “C’mon, I have a better place we can be.” He grabbed his hand and pulled him up, making sure Martha was following close behind. They ran across the cold grass, trying hard to make as little noise as possible. George noted with a silent smile that Paul had grabbed him with his left hand. After a few moments of running, they approached a small clearing of trees that was adorned with lanterns of various colors, casting the world in rainbow light. On one side there was a hammock, directly below one of the lanterns that hung from one of its posts. Paul motioned his head towards it and playfully dragged George towards it, Martha trotting close behind. He let go of his hand to flop down on the hammock making sure not tip it over and send himself reeling into the flower bed. 

“This is where I usually come to think,” Paul said, staring up at the stars. He blushed slightly. “This time I didn’t exactly… make it here.” Tears welled up in his eyes that likely would have gone unnoticed if George had not been looking for them. Paul hurriedly wiped them away. “Here, lay down next to me.” It was George’s turn to blush.

“Oh, okay,” he said nervously, slowly lowering himself down in the hammock. It tipped to one side suddenly, and out of what was probably instinct Paul grabbed ahold of George and pulled him down next to him. They laid there for a brief, awkward moment, the hammock swinging slightly from the motion, the two of them thoroughly smushed together.

“Oh- uh- I’m sorry about that,” Paul chuckled, but neither of them made any effort to move away. “I didn’t mean to impose, I was just worried-”

“It’s fine,” George said quickly, accidentally interrupting him. There was another moment of tense silence as they began to relax. “Are you doing alright? I know you were missin’ your mum.” Paul took a deep breath, chest rising and falling against George’s own. 

“I know I should be over it,” he said quietly. “But I can’t seem to move on. Everyone else is fine, even Michael. Even Da’. Yet I seemed to have been skipped over completely because I can’t get her out of my mind as of late. It’s like I’m relapsing.” 

“Were you two close?” 

Paul nodded. “Like best friends. I felt like I could tell her anything. She always tried to know what to say, to understand me. I wish I could talk to her and ask about the whole marriage thing. I’m really not ready, you know.”

“For marriage?”

“For anything. For responsibility. All this pressure of having to pick someone to spend the rest of my life with- it scares me. What if I choose wrong? And then what if when I can’t decide they choose for me? I sometimes don’t know whether I can trust my dad anymore, not when he thinks I’ve let him down as much as I have.”

“You know, your father was very serious about who the court chose to be your suitor. He specifically said ‘I will have no messing around when it comes to the marriage of our prince.’” 

“He said that?”

“Mmhmm. I know I don’t know a lot about your family dynamic, but he does care about you.” Paul slackened against George, letting out a long sigh, taking his hand in his and fiddling with how their fingers fit absentmindedly. George looked down and saw a few stray tears sliding down his face.

“It’s too fast,” he murmured. “Everything is too fast.” 

“You’re crying,” George said, brows furrowing. Paul took a shaky breath.

“I need her advice more than ever,” he sobbed, gripping George’s hand so tightly he felt his bones would splinter from the force. “But I can’t talk to her. She would tell me what to do, I know she would. She always knew best.” George silently brushed Paul’s hair out of his face with his free hand. The skin of his cheekbone felt wet underneath George’s fingers, soaked with tears. His hazel eyes were so red they were nearly bloodshot, and George stopped for a moment to wonder when was the last time he’d ever seen someone look so tired. As silence filled the air around them, broken only by Paul’s shaky breathing, he began to become distinctly aware of the fact he had no idea what to say. What did you tell someone when they were so distraught?

“I’m sorry,” George said quietly. Paul wiped his eyes with his sleeve until they were almost dry.

“You’re not the one who should be sorry,” he said. “My father did so much to help me and after three years I’m still like this.” 

“You shouldn’t have to blame yourself for that. He can’t just rush you-”

“You don’t understand George,” Paul snapped, cutting him off. “He sought out the help of someone he never would have trusted. Everyone said she was a witch. They still do. With how he sees Ringo, I know he believes it. He brought her here to help me when all she’d ever done before was cleaning. It was a big leap for someone like him.” 

“Who’s this woman?”

Paul was silent for a moment before speaking. “Her name is Yoko Ono.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Thank you again for all the kudos and comments!! :D 
> 
> I was honestly nervous about posting this one, I was staring at my computer screen like "ah shit, chapter three is the dinner scene." But the story must go on and I'm not about to leave out a whole chunk of dialogue


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight disclaimer: This work uses some language and ideas that are no longer considered okay. The things some of these characters say and the way they behave or think about things is just a reflection of the times and settings, and while it is something that they might believe in, that does not mean it reflects my personal beliefs.

_ Three years prior, Yoko’s Ono’s cottage _

Just as she was finishing the dishes, listening to the storm and her daughter playing with her dolls on the old carpet in their living room, a knock sounded on Yoko Ono’s door. She quietly wiped her hands on her apron and whispered to her daughter, Kyoko, to go back to their room and shut the door. 

“Who’s at the door Mama?” Kyoko asked, wide-eyed. Yoko shushed her as softly as she could.

“Stay in your room Kyoko,” she said, trying not to let her anxiety show. “Gather your toys and stay in your room. I don’t know who it is.” With each passing day she grew more and more fearful that some of the village men would mob together and storm her house. They sneered at her as she walked in the marketplace with her daughter, eyeing both of them up like they were a side of meat. It could be anyone of them at the door tonight. With an involuntary shudder, she slowly walked to the door, her hand hovering over the doorknob. 

“Who is it?” she called in a shaky voice. 

“This is His Majesty the King,” a gruff man replied from the other side. “I seek your services. Please open the door at once.” Yoko hesitated, wondering if this was a ruse thought up to capture her and Kyoko. The man pounded on the door, frightening her from her thoughts. “I said open the door! You do not know what is at stake!” Her hand shook over the doorknob as he took the brief pause as further resistance and pounded once more on the door. “That is an order from your king!” 

“I’m opening it! Please, one moment!” she shouted frantically, fiddling with the doorknob that had suddenly become very difficult to turn. The door swung open, Yoko dutifully stepping aside to let His Majesty inside. The man waltzed in, his face grim, making himself alone at the creaky, wooden table by the window. He was dripping wet from the rain and oddly alone. “Your Majesty?”

“Please, no need for titles right now,” he said. “Times are dark. Which brings me to my next point. I have come here for an unconventional request, Miss Ono.”

“What is it?” Yoko asked, slightly puzzled as to why King James was coming to her for help. 

“It’s my son,” he explained, eyes sad. “After Mary died of illness but a month ago, he is hardly able to function. I am afraid sickness may have seized him too. He refuses to get out of bed. Michael is the only one who has been able to make him eat anything, but it isn’t much and he isn’t getting anywhere near the amount of food he should be.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Yoko said.

“I’m growing desperate Yoko!” he shouted. “I need someone to help my son, dammit! Will you do it or what have you?” Yoko jumped back in surprise, her heart quickly picking up pace. She thought of her daughter, all alone in their shared room, likely playing with her little dolls on their bed, listening to some strange, unknown man yelling at her mother. 

“Please, do not yell at me,” she said, face determined. “My daughter is in the next room. This is my house.” King James looked slightly taken aback at Yoko’s set expression and harsh words. It was as though no one had ever stuck up to him in all his years of living. 

“I.. I am sorry,” he said. “I know that rudeness is a bad trait when begging for one’s help. But I do need you to help my son. I’m so scared for him. He and Mary were undeniably close. Two birds of the same feather, they were. I am ashamed to say that her death has hit him harder than me.” Yoko put a hand on his shoulder, staring him straight in the eyes. 

“I will not let you lose your son,” she told him. “But it is a long process. It will not be done instantaneously.” King James sighed, weariness showing in his tired features. 

“Any other catches I should know about?” he asked.

“There is the matter of my daughter.”

“Daughter?”

“Kyoko,” she said, smiling warmly. “It isn’t safe to leave her all alone in our house. She’s only four years of age. She can’t defend herself should we be attacked. I know you are not unaware of the hostility towards me, seeing as I am suspected of witchcraft by the townsfolk and some of your own men.” King James chewed his lip anxiously, mulling it over.

“I am not one for random children running along these halls, Miss Ono,” he said. Yoko’s smile vanished. “Especially with such a delicate matter.”

“King James,” Yoko said. “Kyoko is extremely well-behaved. You are seeking me out. I can refuse you, as I am not obligated to help you. You care about the safety of your son as I care about the safety of my Kyoko.” Her voice grew louder with emotion. “You  _ can’t _ know what these men have shouted at us as we walked down the street, I  _ know _ she isn’t safe here! If you can’t understand that then you can’t have my help!” 

King James crossed his hands across his chest in bitter defeat, stunned and ruffled by Yoko’s outburst.“Alright then Miss Ono,” he huffed, as though she had personally offended him. “Your daughter will be permitted to stay with you.”

“I have your word?”

“You have my word.” 

Yoko sighed, relieved. “Then you have my help, sir.”

“Words cannot express my gratitude, Miss Ono,” King James said, shaking her hand, and Yoko could see in his eyes he wasn’t lying. “Tomorrow morning, report to the palace. My staff and I will leave you to work your magic.” Yoko nodded, showing him to the door. As he stepped out of the threshold, she called out:

“I don’t, you know.” King James turned, puzzled.

“Do what?”

“Work magic. Those are rumors.”

“We shall see about that, Miss Ono.” She watched him go with an uneasy feeling in her stomach, waiting only until he was thoroughly out of sight to close the door. Just as she did, Kyoko came running to her from their room. She wrapped her little arms around Yoko’s legs. Yoko ruffled her hair with a loving smile. 

“Who was yelling at you Mama?” she asked.

“It was only the King, love,” Yoko replied, scooping her daughter up in her arms. “We best not worry about it now.”

“You always told me it was rude to yell at people.”

“I know, sweetie, but sometimes people yell at you. It’s our responsibility to remain as calm as we can in response.” 

Yoko lay awake in bed that night, unable to sleep. The pit in her stomach had grown too large for her to even close her eyes, let alone rest. Vines curled around her fingertips as she attempted to soothe herself, glowing blossoms sprouting amongst the leaves. Yoko sat up against her pillows, watching it as it grew at random down her wrist. Beside her, Kyoko stirred. 

“Mama?” she called out weakly.

“Did you have another dream?” Yoko asked. Kyoko nodded. 

“One of the bad men was chasing me,” she said. Yoko kissed her forehead and carefully brushed the hair out of her eyes.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she said, holding her small, round face in her hands as she kissed her on the forehead one more time. She readjusted her position slightly and patted the space next to her. “Come here, lay next to me.” When Kyoko had safely cuddled up to her side, Yoko showed her hands and made the flowers grow, watching her daughter’s face light up with giggles. She blew across her open palm towards the ceiling, sending small flowers into the air that emitted a soft, golden hue. One landed precariously on Kyoko’s nose, causing them both to erupt into quiet laughter. Soon, after the petals had landed and Yoko had waved her hand to clean them all up, Kyoko’s eyelids grew heavy. Still snuggled up next to her mother, the young girl fell fast asleep, Yoko not far behind. 

The next morning Yoko reported to the palace just as she’d promised. She walked down the looming, echoing halls, gripping Kyoko’s hand in hers so she wouldn’t get left behind. Everywhere they went the staff gave the two of them odd looks, the less considerate ones stopping in their tracks and letting their heads follow them with an obvious stare. Yoko did her best to ignore it, but she could tell Kyoko was getting restless. Distantly she wished that she were not outlawed from performing her magic, so that she may be able to grow flowers from her fingers and cheer her daughter up. Back in their little cottage, where magic was an integral part of their lives, it was easy to forget how much people hated witches. Here it was painfully easy to remember, and Yoko couldn’t help but feel slightly paranoid, protectively drawing Kyoko closer to her side to make herself feel like she was somehow safer. It wasn’t very long before they reached King James’ study, but Yoko couldn’t help but feel that it had taken years.

“Ah, good, you are finally here,” he said in his usual gruff voice as they entered the room. “It took you a while to arrive, you know.” Yoko narrowed her eyes. 

“People don’t like giving carriage rides to outsiders,” she said. King James only rolled his eyes, a disgruntled expression on his face.

“Then you tell them what’s at stake,” he snarled. “Now please, let us not waste any more time and get back to what really matters. Paul has not recovered any more since I last saw you. He is still weak and upset.” Kyoko looked up at her mother questioningly, as if to ask “who’s Paul?” but Yoko only shook her head. 

“You want my help to fix it,” she nodded to the man in front of her. 

King James huffed in reply. “Of course I do. That’s why you’re here.” He gestured for one of the people standing behind him to step forward. “Brian Epstein will show you to his room. Do not fail me, Yoko Ono.” 

Yoko nodded stiffly. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Brian Epstein cocked his head towards the door and lead them outside, closing it roughly behind him. His face was grim, stress evident in the bags under his eyes.

“I apologize for his harsh demeanor, Miss Ono,” he said, his tone of voice surprisingly kind. “These are dark times at the castle. I really shouldn’t tell you this, but he is deathly afraid of losing his son. Especially after the loss of his wife not too long ago.” Yoko thought about how much she loved her daughter and silently understood. “Alright then, here’s his chambers. As someone who has known Paul for a very long time, and personally, too, I beg you please: do as much as you can.” He gave her a polite, sad smile as he opened the door, before swiftly walking away, muttering something under his breath. 

Yoko stepped into the room, the air eerily still. There was an empty feeling to the place as though no one really lived in it. The floors were clean, devoid of clothes and mess, the dresser’s knick-knacks still neatly organized from Yoko’s cleaning weeks before. The only sign of life was the vaguely human-shaped lump underneath the thick comforter of Paul’s bed, shallowly breathing. Nothing save for a few locks of dark hair were visible. Dim sunshine filtered through the sheer curtains that had been tightly drawn, the wide window that once lit the entire room now only able to cast a faint glow. Yoko blinked as her eyes adjusted to the darker light, as did Kyoko. She led Kyoko along, quietly creeping over the floorboards as she set down her things on one of the plush chairs occupying the space. 

“Mommy’s going to make some tea, alright dear?” Yoko whispered. “You be quiet now, we don’t want to wake him.”

“Is that the prince?” Kyoko asked, careful to keep her voice from being too loud. 

“Mmhmm. The King wants us to help him.” Kyoko let out a small gasp, staring at the bed in awe. Yoko giggled softly as she pulled out her tea kettle and leaves. “I’m going to make the tea now, okay?”

“Okay Mama.” Making sure to keep an eye on her daughter just in case, Yoko filled the tea kettle and set it on the stove. It was odd to her that someone should have a kitchen in their room, but she was grateful she didn’t have to leave the room to boil water. Kyoko came up from behind her and tugged lightly on her skirts, peering at her curiously.

“What is it Kyoko?” she asked, picking her daughter up so they could be at eye level.

“Why do we need to help the prince?” Yoko thought for a moment.

“Because he’s a little bit unwell.”

“Unwell?”

“Yes. You remember when we found that old dog, and I said he’d been abandoned? We brought him home, but he didn’t want to eat or play?”

“And you said it was only with a lot of love and care would he want to do anything again?” 

Yoko nodded, tapping Kyoko’s nose with her finger. “Yes, exactly. Prince Paul is a bit like that old dog. He lost someone very important to him, and he’s upset about it. He can’t find the motivation to get up. So the King appointed me to try and give him that love and care that he needs.” Kyoko still seemed a bit confused.

“But Mama,” she asked, tilting her head. “Why doesn’t the King try and help Paul himself?” Yoko smiled sadly, her heart panging with sympathy for the boy sleeping under those covers, brushing Kyoko’s bangs from her eyes.

“I don’t know, baby,” she replied. “I guess he doesn’t really understand.” The tea kettle whistled at them impatiently, telling the world that the water inside was finally hot enough and that someone should do something. Yoko slowly set Kyoko down. “That was fast. Alright then, can you get Mama a teacup please Kyoko?” She nodded, smiling widely, running over to the bag and combing through it until she found what she was looking for. Proudly she presented the teacup to her mother, practically beaming. Yoko gratefully accepted it, patting Kyoko on the head for her good work. 

“I wonder what kind of tea the prince likes,” Kyoko thought aloud. Yoko hummed in affirmation, rifling through her teabags. 

“That’s a good question love,” she said. “Green tea will have to do for now. It’s said to help people when they’re feeling sad. I think it’ll be good for him, it might soothe him a little bit.” 

“I always like tea when I feel down,” Kyoko said, smiling. 

Yoko giggled. “Me too.” Right on cue, the lump underneath the covers stirred, emitting a quiet, muffled groan. Yoko rushed over with the tea, Kyoko shyly watching from behind one of the chairs. Paul shifted and turned in his bed, rubbing his eyes with a yawn. He lay a moment on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling. Yoko noticed with another pang of sympathy that his eyes were remarkably red from what she knew was crying. 

“Prince Paul,” Yoko said softly. “Good morning.” Paul looked at her quizzically. 

“Who are you?” he asked. 

“My name is Yoko Ono,” she explained. “I’m here to help you.” Paul screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, letting out another groan. 

“I… have a headache,” he said.

“Oh! Here, I made you tea.” Yoko held out the glass, which Paul regarded with some perplexion. 

“I’m going to go back to bed,” he muttered, burrowing under his covers.

“Oh, but...” Yoko sighed, still clutching the teacup delicately in both hands. “Well, I’ll leave it here if you need it, okay?” Paul’s shoulders hunched underneath the covers, the boy trembling ever so slightly. Yoko recognized the signs, having seen them so many times before with her daughter whenever she had one of her nightmares, and instinctively brushed his hair out of his eyes the way she did with Kyoko. When she pulled her hand away, it was wet. With another sigh she looked down at him, hesitantly reaching her hand out to let it rest on his shoulder. She ran her thumb in circles around it with motherly affection, trying to provide some form of comfort. Paul tensed underneath her with a quiet sob, pulling the covers tighter around him. Yoko thought for a moment before withdrawing her hand and walking over to one of the bookshelves. She motioned for Kyoko, who obediently ran over to her mother. 

“Kyoko, could you pick out a book for me?” she asked. Kyoko nodded, scanning the shelves. Finally, she settled on a picture book near the left side of the bookshelf that had been neatly tucked away. Yoko observed the cover before giving Kyoko a warm smile. “Lovely choice.” Kyoko beamed with pride and followed her mother over to the bed. Paul had sat up, watching them curiously with red-rimmed eyes, the covers falling around him in pools. His hair was a mess, sticking up on one side. Yoko pulled up a chair and sat down, Kyoko on her lap, Paul’s eyes following her the whole way.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice nasally from crying. 

“I’m going to read to you, dear,” Yoko said. “So I had my daughter Kyoko pick out a book.” Paul turned his gaze towards Kyoko.

“You’re Kyoko,” he said. The girl nodded. “What book did you choose?” Yoko handed it to him. Tears welled up in his eyes as he ran his hands softly over the cover, scanning the title. A few fell silently from his eyes with a shaky breath as he handed it back to Yoko. “Good choice. I couldn’t have chosen better myself.” 

“Paul, are you alright?” she asked, concerned. Paul nodded, hand covering his mouth as he began to cry again. 

“I just- that was my favorite book,” he said. “When I was a kid. I read it with Mam.” Yoko gasped.

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-” she began, but Paul shook his head.

“No, please read it. I want to hear it again.” He laid on his back in bed as Yoko slowly opened the cover and started to read. 

“Once upon a time…” As the story progressed, tears silently rolled down Paul’s face, though he made no effort to stop her from reading nor wipe them away. It was only when Yoko was finished did he seem to do anything.

“Thank you,” he said, giving her a sad smile. He was still crying. Yoko nodded, patting his hand. 

“I’m going to make you some more tea, love, okay?” she said. Without waiting for a response, she set the book down and got up, making sure that Kyoko didn’t trip as she put her back down. She lit the stove again, turning to look at Paul as she waited for the water to boil. He had propped himself up in bed and was staring distantly out the window. Kyoko was sitting on the chair, also watching him, innocent, child-like curiosity visible on her face. Paul noticed, and turned his head, a bit surprised to see her there. Nevertheless, he tried to smile despite his current state and gave her a little wave, which Kyoko returned. Beside Yoko, the kettle hissed, and she quickly pulled herself away to make another cup of tea. Paul had let her drink the one that had originally been meant for him as he hadn’t been feeling up to it, but now Yoko was sure that he would drink at least a little bit. He needed to. She poured the water in, thinking about everything happening in this poor boy’s bedroom. Why hadn’t his father noticed his need for a parent? Had Paul really been going through everything all alone? She sighed to herself, suddenly upset. With a deep breath, she grabbed the teacup and made her way back over to the bed. 

“Hello dears,” Yoko said, handing Paul the teacup, who accepted it rather awkwardly. “Drink that. It’ll help you.” Hesitantly, he took a sip.

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

“Paul, I need you to promise me that you’ll really do your best to eat, okay?” Yoko said. “I trust you haven’t had breakfast yet, so I’ll go and make you some eggs. Please try and eat them, they’re good for you and you need that food.” Paul furrowed his brow.

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not  _ promising  _ anything.” Yoko sighed for the umpteenth time that day, pursing her lips.

“At least drink the tea then,” she told him, before turning on her heel and going back to the stove. The prince must be incredibly stubborn if he was keeping it up in such a state when most didn’t have the energy to do anything. Yoko doubted he had the energy to much else other than being stubborn, and she wasn’t about to let him waste it on such a trivial thing when he could be eating or staying hydrated. For the time being, she respected he was too exhausted to get himself out of bed, though that needed to end soon, too, but he had to try and keep himself alive. That was Yoko’s policy, and she would see to it that it not ever be broken. 

Soon the smell and crisp, crackling sound of frying eggs filled the room. As she watched them sizzling in the pan Yoko pondered what she was to do next. She could try and get him to speak to her, perhaps talk about his mother, but Yoko doubted he was up for anything like that. It was likely that Paul only wanted to sleep, a fact made distinctly clear to her by Paul’s father.  _ But how unhealthy is that,  _ Yoko thought.  _ I’m here to try and  _ help _ him.  _ She continued to reason with herself as she carefully placed the eggs on the plate. Surely it couldn’t hurt to at least  _ ask  _ about Paul’s late mother. The boy could blow off a few intense emotions, as tea could only do so much.

“Here are the eggs,” Yoko said with a smile, placing the plate on the bedside table. “Eat up.” Paul took the plate in his hands without making a single sound, his hands shaking as he slowly took a bite. He pulled a face as he swallowed, almost shuddering. Kyoko stared at him from behind her mother’s skirts, watching intently, a little fearful of the prince, while Paul forced himself to take another bite and endure more of the same misery. Her eyes followed his hand as he placed the eggs back on the bedside table, looking like he never wanted to do anything in a similar vein ever again. 

“I can’t do it,” Paul said, laying back down and rolling over in bed, twisting himself up in the covers. Yoko opened her mouth to say something but was soon cut off by Paul’s hushed, painfully strained voice. “Don’t ask me why. I won’t talk about it.”

“Paul, you need to eat,” Yoko insisted. She grabbed the plate and held it forward, but the stubborn boy burrowed further underneath the protection of his blankets. Yoko wondered if he would ever come out again. “You’re going to make yourself sick, or worse- You’re going to starve.” 

“Eggs always make me feel better,” Kyoko said quietly. Paul stirred underneath the covers, slowly coming out from under them and turning to look at Kyoko with forlorn, almost wistful eyes. Yoko looked into them and saw a boy much younger than the one in front of them. 

“Mam used to make me eggs, too,” he whispered. Kyoko nodded brightly.

“That’s what my mom does,” she grinned. Paul laughed a desperate, sorrowful laugh, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. 

“Yeah? Do you reckon I should eat them, then?” he asked. 

“Yeah!” Kyoko replied. “They’ll help make you feel better.” 

“Okay,” Paul said, taking the plate from off the bedside and beginning to eat. Yoko took a seat and watched, making sure he was eating all of it. She did what she could to hide it, but in truth, she was astonished that Kyoko was able to get someone as set in his ways as the prince to eat. She had been beginning to lose hope, fast running out of ideas, until Kyoko suddenly gathered the courage to speak. And truly- thank god she had. When Paul was finished Yoko took the plate from his waiting hands and put it in the sink. She left it there, not bothering to wash it. That could come later when Paul was fast asleep.

Paul had nestled back under the comforter when Yoko returned to the bedside. Kyoko was sitting in the chair, looking at him with innocent fascination. Yoko sighed at the sight of him reduced to nothing but a vaguely human form the rose and fell with each shaky breath. She thought for a moment that maybe he was crying and didn’t want Kyoko to see but quickly decided that couldn’t be. His shoulders weren’t tensing nor was his body shaking, and he was awfully quiet save for his breathing. Paul simply didn’t want to be in the real world. He only wanted to live in the embrace and protection of his bed, and who could blame him? The real world was relentlessly unforgiving. No human being in their right mind would ever live in a place like this by choice and seeing as they were not given a choice, it was logical they seek refuge in their own mind. 

“How are you feeling, Paul?” Yoko asked. He murmured something Yoko couldn’t make out. “What was that?”

“Not with the girl,” he said. “I don’t want to talk while she’s here.”

“Oh…” Yoko said. “Kyoko, why don’t you go read over there, on the other side of the room? I need to talk to Paul alone for a moment.” Kyoko nodded and quickly made herself scarce, finding something to keep herself focus off their words. “There you go. She can’t leave the room, but she can block us out. Will you come out from the covers?”

“No,” came Paul’s hoarse reply. 

“Then you don’t have to. How are you feeling?” Paul groaned in response to the question, covers shuffling as he drew his legs up close to his chest. 

“I just want to sleep,” he finally said. “That’s all I can do anymore.”

“You’re tired.”

“I’m exhausted. I’m exhausted, and upset, and I want to go home.”

“Isn’t this home to you?” Yoko asked in a hushed voice. 

“No!” Paul shouted, throwing the covers off of him. There were tears running down his cheeks. “This- I- It’s so… empty.” Something clicked in Yoko’s mind. 

“She made it feel full,” she nodded. Paul didn’t answer for a while, only stared out the window in deafening silence. You could’ve heard the individual beats of each heart in the room, had the quiet not been an ear-splitting sound of its own.

“She was this house,” he said. “Without her it means nothing to me. I might as well sleep forever.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, a fresh batch of tears welling up in his eyes. “She was my only friend, you know that? But now she’s gone. I don’t know what to do other then lay in bed and disappear.” Yoko soundlessly wrapped him in an embrace, letting him sob into her chest and wet her shirt as she rocked him slowly back and forth. “I just want to disappear.” 

“Shh, it’s okay,” Yoko whispered. “I think you should rest now.” She carefully laid Paul down on the bed again, pulling the covers over him. Maybe it wasn’t exactly the right decision, letting a boy who had slept days sleep again, but Yoko didn’t pay the idea any mind. She merely reminded herself to wake him up again in a few hours, and then give him a glass of water so he wouldn’t become dehydrated. Paul was asleep within minutes. The amount of energy that was being used on emotion alone, alarmed Yoko. Could exhaustion be weighing on him that heavily? 

If she had not been so certain Paul’s father had cared, Yoko pondered whether she would have gotten angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say this every time but hope y'all enjoyed!! This has been one of my favorite chapters to write so far. 
> 
> Thank you again for all of your feedback and comments!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight disclaimer: This work uses some language and ideas that are no longer considered okay. The things some of these characters say and the way they behave or think about things is just a reflection of the times and settings, and while it is something that they might believe in, that does not mean it reflects my personal beliefs.

The hammock creaked in the nighttime breeze as Paul recounted Yoko Ono’s role in his life. George listened intently, watching his face as he spoke. He caught himself taking distance notice of the way his lips formed every word as he spoke, entranced by each sentence that came out of Paul’s mouth. George chalked it up to being tired. 

“I heard her read to me a lot,” Paul said. He was laying on George’s chest, George’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. “Sometimes it was in a language I didn’t know. It was always comforting to listen to, you know? She almost reminded me of my mother sometimes. She was so kind and genuinely cared about my health. I didn’t always do what she said though. Sometimes I wanted to wallow in my misery forever.”

“I get that,” George said. “When something bad happens people tell you that it’s all going to be okay. But sometimes when they say it...”

“They don’t realize it has to not be okay first,” Paul finished. “I get that. Although a month bedridden was unhealthy. Yoko seemed to know when to pull me back down.” George hummed in affirmation, eyelids growing heavy. He yawned stretching out his arms. “Getting tired?”

“Yeah. Hey, you ever been into town before?” 

“I’m not allowed there without express permission. And even then I’m barred from doing most everything.”

George raised his eyebrows, unable to hide his surprise. “You’re telling me you’ve  _ never  _ had a day where you could do whatever? In your own kingdom?” Paul shook his head with a soft chuckle. “Oh my god… I have to take you there!”

“Wait, wait- what?”

“Come on! I should sneak you out of this stuffy place! Get you out into the world!” George sat up quickly, rocking the hammock dangerously. “I hafta help you  _ live,  _ mate!” 

“Careful there, you’re tipping the hammock!” 

George stuck out his hand. “But do you accept?”

“I-“

“Shh, block out all the noise and ask yourself: do you want to go into town, no rules, and be free to do what  _ you  _ want to do?”

“Well, when you put it like that it does sound pretty appealing.” 

“I’m taking that as a yes?” George asked, grinning.

“Aye, mate,” Paul shouted, taking his waiting hand. “It’s a date.” They both blushed, hands still clasped together. “Well, not necessarily, uh- well, you get the point.” They shook on it, Paul sitting up so fast he ended up tipping the hammock enough to send them both onto the grass. They lay in a heap, erupting into laughter. George watched Paul laugh, the boy clutching his sides as his face brightened with a wide grin. Before George could look away, he’d caught him staring, grin fading into a playful smile. 

“Well hello there,” Paul said, raising an eyebrow. George’s cheeks dusted pink. 

“Oh, sorry I-“

“Ah, ah, no need to apologize,” he assured him. “I’m quite flattered.” Martha whined, sniffing at Paul’s fingers insistently. Paul scratched behind her ears. “Looks like I have to go. Martha’s getting anxious.”

“Oh, okay,” George said, trying not to feel too disappointed. “Well, you have a good night.”

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” Paul offered. He stood up, as did George.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Here, you lead the way. I don’t exactly know where your room is.” George smiled and took his left hand in his, tugging him along gently. Paul chuckled. They walked back to George’s room hand-in-hand, the cool air biting at them through their clothes. They ignored it, a mutual decision to remain focused on their comfortable silence and the beautiful flowers surrounding them. As they continued to make their way to their destination, Paul interlaced their fingers, humming to himself as he bumped George’s shoulder with his.

“Have somethin’ to say?” he asked, going along with the playful mood.

“Hmm?” Paul smiled, peering at him with half-lidded eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” George suddenly got an idea. It could end up being a very bad idea, but he decided that knowing Paul, it would likely go well enough. He kissed the tips of his fingertips on his free hand and gently pressed them to Paul’s lips the way he did at the end of their first meeting. Paul giggled, a faint blush on his cheeks.

“You should’ve saved that for goodbye,” he said. “Follow tradition.”

“Ah, it felt right though,” George replied.

“Did it?”

“Yeah. You’re not the only one who can be a little bit flirty you know.” 

“Well, how’s this for flirty, love?” Paul asked, pulling George’s hand, still clasped in his, to his face and pressing a soft kiss to it. George flushed a bright, brilliant red, causing Paul to laugh good-naturedly. They walked the rest of the way in mindless chatter, swapping jokes that didn’t really mean anything. It seemed not even a minute had passed before they reached the set of french doors separating George’s room from the gardens. As he went to open the door, Paul suddenly spoke up. 

“Wait,” he said. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, awkwardly fiddling with his hands as though he didn’t know where to let them rest. “I- I enjoyed being your friend for a night.”

“Me too,” George said, smiling.

“Tomorrow, I have to do something with Prince John, your friend.”

“Oh, shoot, sorry mate I’d forgotten-”

“But it won’t be forever,” Paul explained quickly. “It’ll only last the morning. Afterward, we could go into town like you said.”

“You’re really willing to take that offer up, aren’t you?” George asked. 

“Of course I am! Did you think I was joking?” Paul giggled.

“Well, I don’t know. I’ll see you later then?”

“Yes. Tomorrow,” Paul said. “It’s a date- kind of.” The two of them chuckled before waving goodbye. George watched him walk away until he was gone from view, only then moving to close the door. As he shut it closed he realized how tired he was, immediately letting out a loud yawn. Just as he was about to get into bed and sleep, a polite knock sounded at his door. George sighed and got up to answer the door, quite astonished by who was on the other side.

“Lord Sutcliffe?” he said aloud, confused. The man nodded.

“Hello,” he said. “Please, you can call me Stuart. I don’t take to formalities as much as the others do. George Harrison was it?”

“Um, yes,” George replied. “But what are you doing here so late at night? Wouldn’t you want to speak to John?”

“Ah yes, Prince John,” Stuart mused. “Exactly the man I’m here to inquire about. You can’t talk to a man about himself. The honest opinion is in his close friends.”

“Oh, well, alright then,” George said. “What do you want to know?”

“George I care a lot about what happens to Paul,” Stuart said, taking a seat in one of the two chairs in the middle of the room. “I want to know who he might be spending the rest of his life with. Is he kind? Does he care about what Paul has to say? Will he get upset with him too often? These are all things a clever man can lie about with ease in court. I’ve seen it happen before. But a close friend who isn’t afraid to admit his best mate’s faults… that’s not something any man can hide from.” 

“Well, I know John is a genuinely carin’ person,” George said. “He’d want what’s best for Paul. I think he wants to see him happy.”

“But will he listen to Paul’s side of the story? Or does he want what he  _ wishes  _ is best for Paul?”

“You know, John gravitates towards discussion,” George told him. “He likes to talk about life, get a bit philosophical. He’s an intellectual. I think he would like to hear Paul talk, and I think Paul wants someone to listen to him.” 

Stuart gave him a confused look. “How would you suppose something like that? About Paul? Have you two spoken?”

“Oh, well, I… uh… maybe?” Stuart chuckled at George’s apprehension. 

“I don’t care if you've spoken outside of dinner or something,” he said. “I’m the last person to care about something like that.” 

“I know you’re the one asking the questions but I have to ask,” George said, taking the opportunity to feed his curiosity. “What was your relationship with Paul like? Besides all that stuff, I mean.” Stuart pondered the question for a moment, looking out the window with an unreadable expression on his face save for a subtle smile.

“It wasn’t much else, I’m afraid,” he said after the moment had passed. “I’d like to have known  _ him  _ better, you know? But I suppose he didn’t exactly feel the same way I did. You know, he was really quite clever. Nobody likes to give him credit for that because of all the stunts he pulls, but he was… he has a lot going on in his head all the time.” Stuart chuckled, more to himself than George. “So many wonderful ideas.”

“You ever discuss them with him?”

“Rarely, when we were both exhausted. I’d be sketching, and he would bring his lute down and play. Sometimes we’d talk, but mostly he’d sing, be it some song in Gaelic or even something he’d written. I wondered if he’d forgotten I was listening. I’d end up sketching him, usually. My sketchbook from that year is filled with drawings of him mid-song. And on occasion, we’d go out into the garden for a stroll or a chat, and I’d draw him there amongst the flowers. Don’t think he ever truly knew how much I was doing it.” George was stunned by what he was hearing.

“I was always under the impression the lot of them were provocative!” Stuart laughed at that, a hint of sadness somewhere in it.

“That’s what everybody wants to make it seem like,” he said. “But it isn’t true. We were friends, too. They want to forget that, I think. It ruins the image they use to criminalize my work and shame him.”

“That’s rotten.” 

“Maybe it is.” Stuart looked around in the silence, a little embarrassed. “Well, I’ve certainly expositioned you. Came here for one thing and started off on a whole other something. Sorry ‘bout that.” George shook his head.

“No, no,” he said. “I’m happy to listen. You’ve got a refreshin’ way of talkin’ ‘bout him. Seems all anyone does is be passive-aggressive. Anything else you want to hear about John at all?”

“No, that’s alright,” Stuart answered, shaking his head as he stood from his seat. “I’ll let his actions speak for themselves. I best be going now. You have a good one.” 

George nodded. “Yeah, you too, mate.” Letting out a tired sigh, George got into bed. Exhaustion caught up to him not a minute later, sending him quickly into a dreamless sleep. 

George was woken up the next morning by a rather short man. This time, however, he was easily able to pinpoint who the man was, and not just by the many rings on his fingers. 

“Good mornin’ lad,” Ringo said with a wide grin. “How’d ya sleep?”

“I slept fine, thank you,” George said dully. 

“Oh really? Methinks you sound like you’ve been runnin’ round the gardens all night.” 

“Y-youthinks?” George asked nervously. 

“Aye, methinks, lad,” Ringo said, face still adorned with his signature smile as he tapped his head. “Me always thinks.”

“Well, I don’t get much sleep in  _ this _ castle,” George replied bitterly.

“Neither does Paul.” George did a double-take. “Oh lad, you’d think that you’d ‘ave seen it all enough by now to know it ain’t nothin’ like that. The boy’s a bit of an insomniac methinks. Don’t you see the dark circles?”

“Oh, yeah.” Someone pounded on the door, waiting barely a moment before bursting in despite the lack of response. George was about to get angry before he saw who it was. 

“Ay, George!” John shouted, jumping onto the bed. “How’s my mate been?”

“Could do with a bit more sleep, if we’re bein’ honest here,” George chuckled. “Feel I’ve been up all day and all night for the past... however long we’ve been holed up in this place anyway!” 

John laughed. “Aye, I feel that man. So, I was going to take Paul to the library. I heard from Brian Epstein that he loves a good book. What’d ya think?” He was grinning from ear to ear like an excited kid, swinging his legs back and forth.

“I think that’s grand,” Ringo answered for him. “You know what kind of books he likes lad?” John paused, looking Ringo up and down.

“Would you know enough about books to tell any difference between them?” he asked. George worried that Ringo would get offended, but the man simply laughed. 

“Oh, lad, methinks you don’t know me at all,” he said. “I love books. I live in them, fairy tales especially. Paul, though, loves the classics. I’ve read them too many times since their debut to really enjoy them, but he can never get tired of all those stories.”

“So you do know the boy,” John said, staring him down. Ringo lazily returned the eye contact. 

“Why of course. Known the lad three years, I have. Methinks I know ‘im better than anyone else.” George looked between the two, becoming increasingly worried about the growing tension.

“Shall we get some breaky?” he suggested. 

“Sounds lovely, George,” John said, getting up from the bed. “But you might want to get changed first, or else you’ll have to make it.”

“Oh, come off it,” George grinned, shoving John playfully. Ringo had mysteriously gone, although neither of them took any distinctive notice of it.

Breakfast went by quickly, George too half-asleep to remember most of it. He and John had talked almost the entire time, relaying their personal experiences with the people of the castle. George didn’t say a word of him and Paul’s chance meeting in the gardens last night, but he mentioned bits and pieces of his strange, out-of-character talk with Stuart Sutcliffe. John took any information on Stuart gratefully, storing it away to use for later- George could guess why. After breakfast had formally ended, they met with Brian Epstein and Paul. George felt the itching need to make himself scarce, either from his heart-to-heart with his best mate’s possible to-be or because he knew he’d be off by himself for most of it anyway, but John made sure he stayed with them. Just as he’d predicted, though, George found himself lagging behind with Brian Epstein as they made their way to the library. George watched them as they walked ahead, some kind of longing in his chest. 

“Feeling a bit left out, love?” Brian asked, keeping his voice low so the pair of them wouldn’t hear. George doubted they’d have noticed, anyway. 

“I suppose,” he said. “I mean, John’s my friend. It’s always been him and me. Now he’s tryin’ to get married.”

“I know how you feel,” Brian sighed. George stared at him, surprised. Brian blushed. “Oh, come off it. We’ve all been left out before.” 

“I guess I didn’t expect it, that’s all.” Brian and George walked the rest of the way in awkward silence, although a few feet up ahead John and Paul kept up their chatter. George cringed at the sound of the two laughing, trying to focus more on the ground rather than his friend’s rough laughter. 

The creaking of the doors echoed in the pristine silence of the library. George stared in awe at the number of books stashed away in one room, the view lifting his spirits. Books were expensive where he lived, and he’d only two or three, but those he had he loved. He drank in the lovely scent of paper surrounding them, breathing in deeply and letting out a sigh of ease. His good mood wasn’t to last long, though. Before he could get a word in with the man, John had gone off with Paul behind a bookshelf, likely in search of books or conversation. Brian hadn’t noticed them disappear from his careful watch, already sitting in one of the plush chairs, oblivious to the world in his immersion in some novel. George sighed and decided he’d go and look for something of his own. As he looked, he couldn’t help but gravitate towards John, inadvertently- or a bit intentionally- listening in on his talk with Paul.

“I heard from a little birdie that you were a fan of the classics,” John said, voice low and murmuring. Paul chuckled.

“Is that what you’re calling him now?” he asked. “I thought he was a goblin.”

“Oh, you know I didn’t mean it that way. I’ve re-examined myself since.”

“Fast re-examination.”

“I was doubting myself before,” John said. “About Ringo. I saw that you were defensive, and I felt guilty.”

“Guilty,” Paul repeated, leaning against the bookshelf. “No one ever feels guilty when it comes to Ringo.” 

“I’m different, then. Open-minded.”

Paul’s lips played into a smile. “Hmm… indeed.” George became distinctly aware of how close the two were standing together, casually breathing each other’s air like it was something friends did, as John reached across Paul to pull a book from the shelf.

“A Midsummer Night's Dream,” he said, placing the book in Paul’s hands, refusing to break eye contact. “What do you know of it?” Paul looked down at the book in his hands then back up at John, using the teasing, half-lidded gaze George had seen from him so many times before. He leaned in towards John and began to speak, voice just as flirtatious as his eyes. 

“‘And even for that do I love you the more, I am your spaniel, and, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel- spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me. Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love (And yet a place of high respect with me) than to be used as you use your dog?’”

“Interesting choice of monologue, darling,” John purred into Paul’s ear, to which he chuckled and absent-mindedly drew his fingers down John’s face and neck, finally stopping to rest on his shoulder. George watched, an unfamiliar feeling churning in his stomach, as John shivered at the contact, face turning red. 

“It’s one of my favorites,” Paul replied with a smile, leaning in even closer so that their noses brushed. George gripped the cover of his book alarmingly tight, the pages crinkling in his tight grasp. His head swam, stomach still tied in a knot. He felt oddly discarded, except he couldn’t pinpoint which one of them was the culprit. The feeling continued to bubble underneath his skin, and he began to wonder if they were allowed to act the way they were. Perhaps he should call Brian over, ask him what he thought of their behavior. George quickly pushed the idea out of his head. If he did so, it was unlikely Paul would ever trust him again, and John would no doubt be royally pissed that George had interfered. No, he needed not to let this growing, troublesome emotion get the better of his common sense. He turned his focus back to his book, pretending he could process what the words were saying. In reality, he was cautiously peering over the cover every once and awhile at John and Paul, hardly realizing he was doing it. 

“You know Stu has heard that monologue before,” Paul was saying. He had separated himself from the bookshelf, taking to running his hands along the bindings of the books instead, but John, for all his talk of turning Paul around, was still standing unnaturally close to him. If Paul moved his head to look at him, there’d not be an inch gap between their lips for them to close. George’s breathing quickened, a frown etched on his face- still, the two lovebirds had not noticed his obvious, lingering presence nor felt his prying eyes upon them. 

“Oh? Has he now?” John asked, hand running down Paul’s arm. George nearly scoffed at the thinly veiled excuses to touch one another, if they were even veiled at all. 

Paul nodded, finally turning to look John in the eyes. “Mmhm. And others, too. In a better predicament, you can hear those as well.” John bit his lip, breath audibly hitching in the suddenly very oppressive quiet of the library as Paul’s hands slid up to hold his waist, fingers brushing against his arse along the way. George wanted to gag. The whole situation reeked terribly of sexual tension that was on the brink of being resolved, and he couldn’t help thinking about how much he didn’t want to deal with the temper of a John who’d failed. 

“Sheets,” John said, grinning with wickedness. “Are for whores, Paulie.”

“Then why don’t you,” he shot back, a sly glint in his eyes. 

“What?”

“Call me a whore. Come now, you’re not a coward, are you?”

“Oh, but I know your type,” John said. George’s palms sweat. He sent a pleading look to Brian but the man was crying softly to himself, likely due to the content of his book (which he noticed was Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet), and it seemed unfit to disturb him as he mourned. “You would rather we move under those sheets of yours before I call you anything, wouldn’t you?”

“Darling as far as you know I  _ always  _ want to get under sheets, remember?” Paul’s tone was light and teasing, but George looked into his face and saw his smile flickering, and his eyes were not quite as half-lidded as they were before. John noticed just as well as him. 

“Have you taken offense?” John asked. 

“Every act gets old when it’s done too many times and not enough times right,” Paul answered. 

“It was my mistake.”

“You’re an understanding man, Mister Lennon.” John gave a grin, and George was ever the more aware of every place him and Paul were touching. 

“I’ve found dogs listen to me better if I’m nice to them first,” he remarked, and Paul visibly shuddered. George thought that soon he was going to snap if this kept up, but surprisingly enough Paul broke away soon after, walking a ways away towards another section of the library. John trailed along after him, and with a moment’s hesitation, George was drawn with him, sure to keep enough distance as to remain inconspicuous. He began to peer over the cover of his book the way he had before but soon had his efforts halted by someone snatching it right from his hands. If he had more confidence, he would’ve admitted that it took him a second to realize it was gone. 

“Hey!” he whispered, turning wildly as he tried to find the culprit. “Give that back!” 

“Give me ten good reasons,” a familiar voice said. “‘Cause methinks you were usin’ it to spy on me friend, lad.” George inwardly groaned. He could recognize that voice anywhere. 

“I wasn’t spyin’ on anyone!” he protested, still spinning in circles as he swiped at air. He huffed in unadulterated annoyance. “Just where  _ are  _ you anyway?”

“Oh, yes you was, lad! Me always thinks, remember?” Ringo replied. “Also, I’m behind you.” George spun around. “No, other behind.” He spun around again, and almost jumped right out of his skin at the sight of the small man leaning nonchalantly against the bookshelf, George’s book in hand.

“How in the world- how did I not see you?” George mumbled, mostly to himself, taking the book from Ringo’s waiting hand.

“Methinks I was out of your range of vision,” Ringo said. “People think me a goblin because of me size, remember? That was one of the factors.”

“Okay, one more question,” George said. “Why are you the only one in this bloody kingdom who uses the phrase ‘methinks?’”

“Other than Shakespeare? Methinks I don’t know, lad. People just don’t know the beauty of the word, I suppose- or shall I say, methinks. Why were you spyin’ on me friend?” 

“I wasn’t spyin’, Ringo!” George said, a bit too loud for comfort. 

“George?” John said, turning swiftly around on his heel. George immediately flushed red from potential embarrassment. Beside him, Ringo chuckled. “Did you say something, mate?”

“Oh- uh, no, sorry,” he stammered. “I was jus’ talkin’ to Ringo here.” John’s eyes narrowed the slightest bit, almost not enough to be noticed.

“Oh, Richard, eh?” he said, masking his distaste in such a way where George would hear it but not Paul. Speaking of Paul, the man had perked up at the mention of his friend and, beaming brightly, lunged straight for him. 

“Ringo!” he exclaimed, wrapping him in a bone-crushing hug that put the most affectionate of mothers to shame. Behind him, John looked dismayed. 

“Macca!” Ringo chuckled, ruffling Paul’s hair as the boy buried his face in his shoulder (John was looking increasingly dismayed now). “How’s me favorite person?”

“Am I really your favorite person?” Paul said into Ringo’s neck, muffled voice laden with dramatized emotion. “In all the world and its seven seas?” 

“Why stop at the world?” Ringo asked, moving to cup Paul’s face with his hands. George thought he saw John visibly grimace. “You’re me favorite person in the whole universe!”

“This is very sweet and all,” John said, not at all sounding like he thought it was sweet. “But we’d best be getting back to what we were doing.”

“Oh, what are you doing?” Ringo asked, pointedly ignoring John. 

  
“Talking about books,” Paul said, gently removing Ringo’s hands from his face. “Mostly.”  
  


“Are you? How merry,” Ringo replied, smiling warmly. Next to George, John let out a quiet huff, crossing his arms. He looked thoroughly unamused. 

“I remember saying something about getting back to what we were doing,” he said, voice harsher than before. Ringo chuckled, which only sought to irritate John further. “Richard, if you please, get on with whatever task you’re probably supposed to be doing. I know you don’t have this much free time!”

“Well, lad, methinks you’re friend’s about to blow ‘is top,” Ringo said to Paul, standing on his tiptoes so he could ruffle the boy's hair. “So’s I best be on me way.” He turned to leave in one quick, smooth motion, but he only took one step before Paul’s hand shot out and took a hold of his arm.

“Wait!” he said. “Don’t go. You could stay with us! We haven’t been able to spend a lot of time together lately.” George glanced over at John and found the man was quietly seething under a barely kept up facade of calm. George himself was prickling ever so slightly at the notion of having to spend time around someone like Ringo. They hadn’t spoken much, but the man always did most of the talking, and the way he spoke had such a strangeness to it that George could hardly stand the very sound of his voice.

“I couldn’t,” Ringo replied sheepishly, though he intertwined his and Paul’s fingers. John noticed, and his eyes narrowed an impossible amount. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Rightly so,” John mumbled. 

“You won’t be intruding on anything,” Paul said. He dragged Ringo off to another part of the library with a light giggle. “Come on Mam!” George stared after him, certain his ears must’ve deceived him. 

“Did he just call him...” He paused, then shook his head. “No, never mind.”

“Never mind is right,” John scoffed, a scowl etched deep into his face. “Enough about your troubles. I can’t believe Paul willingly went off with that goblin mid-seduction. Halted absolutely everything for his stupid, shorty arse!”

“Did you even hear what I said?” George asked. 

“I was about to correct his behavior, honest! I was a little bit distracted because it was a library, and I love books I swear it.” John was pacing furiously back and forth, paying his friend no mind. “I just can’t see what’s more appealing about Richard bloody Starkey than me. I’m making an active effort to be around him instead of going off for a few days. Didn’t you notice that little off-handed comment from sweet Paulie?”

“Can we please talk about the deceased mother bit?” George asked again, louder than expected. It wasn’t like he cared, anyway. He was too frustrated for that. 

“Oh, George,” John said, giving him a pitiful look. “I don’t see why you’re so inclined towards the dead mums. Bit cynical, you should choose some other material.” They were interrupted by the sound of fast-approaching footsteps.

“Hello lads,” Paul said, still tightly holding hands with Ringo. He was beaming widely, practically radiating an unusual chirpiness that George had never seen from him before. “I got my book. We’d best be on our way I think.”

“Oh, so that’s it then?” John asked.

“Yeah, I’m hoping to spend the day with M- Ringo, you know?” Paul said. George couldn’t help but think that he was talking wildly fast. He could hardly understand him for Christ’s sake. It wore off quickly, replaced by a sort of timidness. “If you don’t mind, that is.” 

John gave George a devious smile, as though he’d won at something. “Not at all Paul, you go have fun.” Paul grinned brightly again and nodded his thanks. Just as he was about to run off with Ringo, however, he gave George a small, discreet wave. 

_ “See you soon,”  _ he mouthed, and he was off. John stayed none the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I just wanted to let you know there might be some time between now and the next update. I'm having trouble writing things out, but I think once I get over this roadblock I should be writing fairly fine. I have a lot of plans for this fic that I really want to write, so I'm using those as motivation to keep going! Anyways, just wanted to let you know that it will most likely be a while until things get moving again. Thank you again for your lovely support!


	6. Author's Note

Hello. Some of you know that I posted two new chapters over the last few months. These are now deleted.

Why? Because I'm going to re-write them.

As an aspiring writer, my goal is always to improve. I felt that these chapters did not reflect what I wanted them to in terms of style and quality. They lost the charm I have been striving for in this story. Instead of the humourous tone present in previous chapters, these two were overrun with too much dialogue, bad plot convenience, and generally lacklustre scenes. I was, and am not, satisfied with the writing. Therefore, I've decided to write something that I can be proud of. Something that I feel you the readers will enjoy much more. And if you liked the deleted chapters, fear not, some elements will carry over. Overall, though, I don't think they could be saved through editing alone. Those babies needed a full-on second draft.

I apologize for this inconvenience and hope you all will be patient with me. Thankfully, since I already have a pretty good idea of what's going to happen thanks to my first draft, these should come pretty quick, and I'll post them both as soon as they're done and edited. 

Thank you all for reading this, your support means so much. I really appreciate you guys :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed the first chapter of this story :) I have about the next four chapters written out already, so I might post tomorrow or in the next few days. 
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated! :D


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